Unfinished Business
by pumpie2
Summary: Sequel to A Habit. Something is out there and it's coming for them. Can Sherlock figure out what is going on before it is too late? Can he maintain his fledgling relationship at the same time? Will he ever give the sweater back?  No. Probably not.   SLASH
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay, hello everyone. This is a sequel to A Habit and continues where that story left off. Please read and review! This chapter is just a prelude so give me your thoughts on what you think is going on, what you want to be going on...anything really!**

The air was bitterly cold as they exited the car, Mycroft's man piling their bags up on the pavement outside 221B, helpfully clearing a small hole in the snow before placing them down. Sherlock nodded to the driver thanking him and with a wave the elegant black car slid away leaving them stood alone in the still darkened morning air. He sucked in a deep breath, ah home again. Familiar scents, familiar sights and the familiar flip of his stomach as John grinned across to him, bending down to grab the bags.

Out of the pounding of his heart in his ears Sherlock could've sworn he heard the rumbling of an engine, but there was no traffic this early and with the snow Baker Street was deserted. He too bent down to grab the bags, keeping his eyes on John as he leant over them, checking they were all there. (After all it was a..._interesting_ image.)

Suddenly there was the screeching of tyres and almost in slow motion a dark blue hatchback hurled towards them, skidding on black ice and mounting the curb. Sherlock shouted out and dove, bags and all on top of his lover which sent them flying towards the steps of the flat with punishing force as the car skidded a small way down the pavement before swerving off and carrying on at top speed down and around a corner.

Sherlock let his head drop to the side of Johns head, the doctor lying underneath him. He was sure there was something distinctly odd about that car and he thought back over what he had seen...but then Johns hands were suddenly icily cold against the skin of his chest, skirting over ribs and down his back and lower his skin tingling and he wriggled. (No doubt checking for injuries. A doctor's tic it seemed.)

This was becoming rather...uncomfortable and he turned to look at John, his eyes seemed worried but all Sherlock could think was that his hands were now pulling him closer and he leant down pressing a heated kiss to the other mans lips.

"What..."

"We should probably get inside...out of these clothes."

"Because they are wet, yes of course. Are you hurt? Phew...that was lucky, I can't believe you managed to see that in time. Very...close."

John was nodding and grinning and was slightly breathless which sent a nice shiver down his spine. (He decided not to mention that the fact his clothes were wet hadn't factored into his plan, but if John was going to remove his clothes it didn't matter what the original intention was. He could always change that.)

John's hands were on his waist and the doctor looked up at him patiently. "Sherlock, do you mind getting off me. My feet are going numb."

The distracted detective nodded after a second and leapt to his feet, pulling his colleague up after him. His cheeks were tinted pink, the snow falling again and it settled in his hair and on his eyelashes, soft smile playing about his lips, he looked stunning. The detective sucked in a haggard breath and rushed forwards to capture the surprisingly warm lips of his lover, holding him close, after all now he was allowed to why did he have even have to ask.

John chuckled as he released him. "Come on; better get inside before it becomes a blizzard out here."

Mrs Hudson greeted them at the door, flailing her arms around and trotting up the stairs to put the kettle on. The doctor insisted on taking the heavier bags and Sherlock watched him power up ahead of him, always in control. He grinned; yes it was good to be home. Very good.

An hour later Mrs. Hudson had taken her fill of fussing over their clothes and pouring tea and holding Sherlocks face in her cupped hands to look at his haircut, cooing and smiling warmly.

"Sherlock dear you look so handsome."

She received a hug from the doctor and a promise that he would tell her the whole story another time before she bustled out of the door. That left them alone and Sherlock stretched from his place on the sofa, getting up with the intention of checking his emails. His veins already jumped with a shot of adrenaline, almost in anticipation of another case, of the thrill of the work.

He was leant over his chair to reach the side unit he was sure he had left the laptop on when two arms wrapped around his hips and he was yanked backwards, landing on Johns lap with a shocked gasp.

He frowned and crossed his arms, heart pounding in his chest at the unexpected action. (He instantly forgave the doctor though, his hands having wrapped around the taller mans waist to keep him there and to stop him from simply slipping away. It wasn't as though he _was _going to leave but he thought it best not to mention that. John might've let him go.)

"John if you wanted to-"

"No work."

"You only had to ask. What do you mean **no** work!"

"I mean, this Christmas was the most stressful holiday I have ever had and yes it was also one of the best but I am_ tired_. No matter how much you deny it you are tired too. I just want twenty-four hours where there are no major revelations, no deaths, no murder, no conspiracies plots or corruption. No obligations at all and most important of all no **work**. Can I have that? Please just this once."

Sherlock frowned. But his mind...it rebelled without work, he needed it. "Then what do you suppose we do, watch television!"

He didn't even try to keep the disgust from his voice, glaring down at his lover as defiantly as possible. John's serious face broke into a grin and his hand slid down from Sherlocks waist to curl over the top of his thigh.

"That isn't exactly what I had planned...I'm sure we could think of something."

Perhaps twenty-four hours without work wasn't all that bad after all.

The next day at almost precisely 8 AM he heard a distinctive set of footsteps on the stairs and he rolled his eyes. John was upstairs taking a shower having had his wish of twenty-four hours and leaving the detective alone to lie on his sofa, arm lifelessly held out as he flicked through channel after channel. The footsteps paused in the doorway and he sighed sitting up.

"Irene."

"Sherlock, how lovely it is to see you this morning." (Irene, a creature of habit it seemed. Always turning up whilst Sherlock was underdressed. He was beginning to think she did it on purpose.) He finally looked at her.

Her hair was up in a severe ponytail, black sunglasses (Indoors no less.) hiding her eyes which he had no doubt were alight with feline predatory light."I did come here to give you some work to do but..."

"One of your little adventures go amiss? Sunglasses indoors Irene. Tell tale giveaway."

She grinned and whipped them off, folding and sliding one black plastic arm into her bust, tight black sweater and tailored trousers finished off with vibrant green heels. She swept across the room and basically threw herself into Sherlocks lap, mirroring his and Johns positions from the day before except he didn't put his arm around her; instead she clung to his neck to keep herself stable.

Her makeup was perfect, but not enough to completely cover the dark bruise around her eye and along her cheekbones and especially not this close. She wriggled licking her lips and whispering close to his ear.

"I do have time to play Sherlock."

He shivered, but not for the reason she seemed to think and the pleased quirk of her eyebrow made him frown. (It was making him decidedly nauseous to have her perfume swamping his face and he fought the urge to throw her off him. But, alas, she _had_ mentioned work and it wouldn't be wise to anger her. Yet.)

"He isn't interested."

Ah John. His hero. The doctor was stood in the doorway, arms crossed, danger face back in full force. The effect was dampened slightly by his fluffy still drying hair and softly flushed skin. The top couple of buttons were undone on his shirt and he wore no socks, bare toes curling against the wooden floors just peeking out from his jeans. Every muscle was tensed, eyes boring into the woman with her hand skimming though his flatmates hair. (It really wasn't fair to be so consistently attractive, no matter what he was wearing, saying or doing. Poor sportsmanship really.)

Sherlock beamed. "John!"

The doctor glanced to him, eyes softening a little and he padded across the floor, placing a hand on Sherlocks shoulder as he bent down for a long languid kiss, thumb stroking over the detectives neck, his skin tingling under the touch. He pulled back with a grin not breaking the eye contact before he turned and walked towards the kitchen, waving over his shoulder at Irene in general.

"I expect you are here to ask for Sherlocks help?"

His voice carried from the other room and Irene pouted, looking down at her former lover. "Oh, so you aren't just flatmates anymore. I suppose it does save on hotel fees...perhaps next time darling."

She smirked and bent down as if to kiss him and John was suddenly back, yanking her clear off Sherlocks hips and onto the floor with a thump. (He committed the image to memory. John looked practically primal and it was a scene he definitely didn't want to forget.)

"Actually, there won't be a next time. Ever."

"You can't be _serious_. Sherlock Holmes in a committed relationship?"

"Yes actually. Deathly serious."

"And you think he will stay with you?"

"Yes."

"_Forever_?"

"Yes, **forever** and I would suggest if you need his help in future you simply _ask_. He doesn't want or need you throwing yourself at him."

Irene rolled her eyes, looking at Sherlock for a long minute before turning back to the doctor. "Fine."

John nodded and bent down helping her to her feet. "I am glad you understand."

"It's a shame though; he was always one of the best."

She smirked, hands on hips and John blushed a little, something akin to a smug grin flashing across his lips. "Yes well..."

"Here, missing person. That police detective of yours will probably get the report pretty soon so if you find him before they do, don't hesitate to call. My employers would rather he stay outside of her majesties custody."

She reached into that sweater and seemingly from nowhere pulled a thin manila folder out, handing it to Sherlock with a smile. "I suppose this is what you mean by more than you know."

Sherlock just grinned a little wider and she bent down kissing him on the cheek, laying one on John before she wiggled out of the room, her voice barely audible as she reached the stairs.

"Goodbye boys."

The front door slammed shut and John glanced down at his lover, double taking when he saw the look on his face. "What?"

"You are going to stay with me forever?"

John blushed for real now and plopped down on the sofa next to him, his thigh warm against the detective's bare skin. He couldn't stop grinning, his cheeks hurting with it.

"Well I haven't really had time to think about it..."

He was quiet for a couple of second before putting his hands together on his lap and tilting his head at them.

"Forever is a long long time but right now I can't see myself leaving you and I know that the things we have seen, the things we have been through, they have been some of the worst things I have ever had to... well it hasn't been easy on either of us and we are still here. Nothing that has happened has changed how I feel about you or this relationship and I can't think of a single thing that would. So forever might be a long time but-"

He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose. "-It would be a hell of a lot longer not having you there and not much fun at that."

It was like a kick to his stomach and he sucked in a breath. John was looking down at his hands and so he reached out lacing his fingers with the doctors, pressing a soft lingering kiss to his temple.

He wasn't sure what to say, did he tell John that he definitely didn't want to spend forever without him? Did he tell him just how much those words had meant to him? Did he mention that if heaven and hell did turn out to be real he would no question be going downstairs where as John would probably go to heaven to spend eternity and... his mind was running away with him.

He frowned trying to focus his wandering thoughts. "I don't think you'd like hell."

John laughed. "Well, I'm sure we could make do. At least we wouldn't have to worry about heating bills anymore."

Sherlock smiled. He was right, at least there was that.

They had gone out to eat that evening, John explaining that the state of the kitchen when he had rounded the corner had almost given him a panic attack. He did try apologising but the doctor simply put a hand up, danger face and the voice in full effect.

"Don't even mention that mess. I will sort it out later. Right now all I want to do is to eat."

So he didn't mention it again. John chose a restaurant a few streets away and they sat in a darkened corner, Sherlock pouring over the tiny scraps of data Irene had given him. John tucked into his steak, just watching the detective.

"Hmm, it appears Irene is looking for a man named Nico, Gustav Nico. An architect judging by these sketches she found in his office. We will have to visit the place of course...ah, look here John."

The doctor leant across the table, and the detective bent his head too, turning the page to gesture to the bookcase in the image. "See this? This symbol is-"

Suddenly the window across the room from John shattered and a bullet whipped through the air, imbedding itself in the wall just a whisker to the left of Sherlocks ear. He blinked and jumped from his seat, thundering across the restaurant and jumping through the shattered window, he skidded a little on the icy ground, only just catching sight of the blue car as it turned off the street before he slipped backwards, landing heavily on his side.

He sucked in a deep breath, he was winded but nothing was broken and John was crouched over him.

"Sherlock? What _was_ that?"

He looked up to explain but the restaurant owner had appeared and people were crowding around, someone was calling the police. He sighed and leant his spinning head back, blinking hard to try and clear his muddled mind. Pain pounded through him, and yet again he was lying down in the snow after a bizarre near death experience.

(Something clicked in the back of his mind but his thoughts were scattered, it was lost amongst the throb of his skull and warmth of fingers at his neckline.)

Johns eyes were worried, and he lifted Sherlocks head gently, shining a small torch in his eyes.

"I don't know."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Okay wow you guys. Thank you all so much for the reviews and for everyone who has alerted themselves to this sequel. Plot! Intrigue! Fluff! All for you in this chapter. Surely that is worthy of a review? Eh eh?**

Nico's office was archaic. Paper files, old books, dusty potted plants and sketches littered the claustrophobic space. There was a door leading to a small closet and John made for it, leaving Sherlock alone to look around, and his eyes for some reason were drawn to the desk. To the notes and papers strewn across it.

Something wasn't right.

"John."

He waited but the doctor didn't answer him. "John!"

Still no answer.

What could he have done going into a closet? Gotten lost! _Preposterous_. Sherlock whirled around to see the door open but the light inside must've burned out inside because he couldn't see more than an inch past the doorframe, pitch black dark beckoning him in. He frowned and strode towards it fearless; after all it was only a closet.

As soon as he crossed the threshold the door slammed shut behind him and he turned reaching out to jiggle the handle but it seemed to be locked or jammed or something. Never mind he could always get John to kick it down. John, yes of course.

He turned back and took one step into what seemed like an extraordinarily large and oddly empty closet. Then he heard a giggle. A _familiar_ giggle. Sherlocks eyes widened and he blindly reached for the doorknob again, yanking and pulling and scrabbling in his attempts to get out because now light was leaking in, just a little, and he could make out panelled walls and something large, oblong, that stood in the centre of the room.

The cold was creeping towards him and he couldn't hear anything but that echoing sickening giggle. It made his skin crawl and he turned away from the all too familiar room to beat the door with his fists screaming and banging and trying to get out, get away because he didn't want to be here. Not back here.

But then, a voice, "Tut tut I wouldn't have taken you for a scaredy cat."

He froze; every muscle tensed the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He knew that voice.

Turning around he opened his mouth to speak but all he could do was gape soundlessly as the voice boomed from every corner. "This is a dream. This is obviously a dream. I just need to wake up."

"So clever, yes of course this is a dream so as you will logically assume, it can't **actually** hurt. Or can it?"

Sherlock turned because the voice was now coming from one direct spot, the table in the centre of the room. He peered out taking a step forwards and suddenly it was bathed in light, John's lifeless body hanging limp there, and for a bizarre second he wanted to laugh. Had he looked so listless, so devoid of animation all those weeks?

He sucked in a breath and tried to run to him but his legs were like lead and he couldn't move them no matter how much he tried, the floor seemed to disappear beneath him and he collapsed to his knees, hands only just bracing in time to stop his face from making contact.

His voice wouldn't work, he tried to call out to his lover, to John, but he couldn't get his voice to work, why wouldn't it fucking work! He tried to focus his brain, tried to think logically but he was panicking, his thoughts were scattering in terror of the man, the memories.

It thundered through his veins, through his mind and all he could do was stare as a thin white hand slid up from behind the table and reached up nicking Johns exposed neck with a long nail, a thick trial of black blood seeped from the wound and Sherlocks stomach lurched.

The doctor grunted and woke slowly, blinking and looking around him, sheer panic and terror flooding his eyes and he yelled, calling out for Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Help me! Help me!"

He made eye contact but looked right through him like the detective wasn't even there and the now furious man shakily got to his feet. "No this is happening."

He turned and made a mad dash for the door punching the wall with all the rage that had built up in him, all the force he could muster, hoping that the shock of the pain in his mind would be enough to wake him, to rouse him from the icy cold of the room.

But it didn't work and he stumbled back as pain streaked up his arm and he put his hand in his armpit whimpering with the sheer agony.

He shook his head closing his eyes and trying to force himself to concentrate. He broke out in a cold sweat as that voice slid over him, so close now he could feel the breath on the back of his neck. Cold and clammy like deaths pale hands coming to squeeze the remaining life from his failing lungs.

Spinning on the spot he stared at John, a strange metal contraption now fixed over his terrified face. It was covered in spikes and smacked of the torture devices Sherlock had researched as a child with almost revered glee.

"Sherlock dear. All you need to do to save your little friend here is answer me this..."

The voice was like thick gooey caramel, oozing with malice and delight. He took a step forwards and peered into the darkness beyond the doctor, a well toed foot stepping into view. He appeared impossibly long and thin, fluid but clean movements as he stepped towards him with the soft rustle of a snake's path over the ground.

A well tailored suit, blue rabbit mask with long twisted ears and a slightly broken marred face casting ghostly shadows across the shattered landscape of his features. Beneath it his tongue flicked out over sharp white teeth and he smiled.

"Come on Sherlock dear, what's the answer?"

"I don't know the question."

"Wrong!"

The contraption juddered and snapped a little closer to Johns now weeping eyes. Sherlock yelled out but it did nothing. He collapsed on the slick floor, heart thundering in his too lean chest, his muscles ached and he couldn't hear for the whispering on the wind that flowed around him making him shiver through his thin shirt.

He squeezed his eyes shut, he couldn't look he daren't see the pure agony in Johns eyes. The betrayal. He was shamelessly pleading now, his resolve broken voice just a shadow of his former arrogance.

"I don't know the question what is the question!"

The sly smile he knew all too well and suddenly two frozen bony fingered hands were gripping his head pulling and scrabbling at his eyelids forcing him to look, to watch as the cage closed further around a now screaming John.

"Wrong."

A silky whisper in his ear and his eyes dripped with tears, the wind so painful on his bare gaze and he panted trying and failing to get up, to fight, as the cage dropped further and further towards John, the doctor's screams getting louder and more terrible with every passing second.

"Please stop! Stop! I don't know I don't know!"

"That **is** a shame."

The cage finally released and slammed down and John let out a blood curdling scream.

The scream echoed around him and he peered out blinking rapidly trying and trying to stop it from deafening him, from tearing his heart from his chest.

"Sherlock! Sherlock calm down hey clam down!"

Suddenly he was being shaken and John was there and he was back in John's bed and everything was fine. Then he realised he was the one screaming.

He shut up.

John's hands were on his bare chest and they were very warm and he let his head fall back with soft thump. The quilt was pooled around his waist, beads of icy cold sweat had built up on his naked chest and he panted, not daring to close his eyes.

John was leant over him, eyes alight in the staggered light filtering through his blinds and Sherlock reached up to pull his face down, pressing a kiss to his lips and letting him go. Yes this was real.

"John. I think I had a nightmare."

"Yeah well, I guessed that one."

"You are real." (It didn't hurt to be sure about these things and somehow he reasoned even in a dream John wouldn't lie to him.)

"Yes of course it is."

The doctors tense shoulders slumped a little and he too lay back, sighing. "Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay."

Sherlock glanced sideways and John was looking at him, careful concern and measured affection his eyes. He smiled and reached out. It was...frankly _wonderful_ to see those eyes, his mouth, and the wrinkles on his forehead, everything, so devoid of pain or fear.

The image of John on the table flashed behind his eyes and he sucked in a breath, reaching out to pull him close in, wrapping his arms around Johns back to trap the doctor's arms in to his chest, short blonde hair brushing against the detectives chin. (His arm would be dead by morning but frankly he couldn't care less.)

He relaxed as his breathing returned to normal, closing his eyes for just a moment and opening them again when cold dread washed over the back of his mind. Well, that was inconvenient.

"Are you sure you are okay?"

John's voice was muffled and his lips brushed against the taller mans collarbone making him shiver. He reached down and pulled the quilt up to cover them, careful not to let John go. He couldn't leave then. (Silly really but there was none else to witness this moment and he wouldn't have cared if there had been.)

"Yes."

And nothing more was said about it. John fell back asleep some time later but Sherlock wouldn't **couldn't** close his eyes again, instead concentrating on counting John's heart beat through their joined chests.

John didn't mention it again although that morning he would catch the doctor glancing his way, as if his mind had wandered to him for a second. He smiled, he had never thought he would be in a situation like this but now he was he was surprised at how much he dearly wanted to cling to it.

The receptionist at Nico's office was clearly surprised to see anybody actually in the tiny lobby area of the office building. So much so that she knocked her drink over in shock and John rushed forwards to help her mop it up.

"I'm sorry. Can I help you?"

She was blushing and kept looking at John with a hesitant smile. He gave her his best comforting smile in return and she blushed even deeper, keeping her hands on his a tad too long before taking the sopping tissues from his grasp.

Sherlock glared at her and took a step towards John, pulling him back by a closed hand on the back of his jacket. The doctor glanced up at him frowning a little, clearly confused, this changing to exasperation when he saw the fierce glance Sherlock gave the woman's turned back. John rolled his eyes and took a step back swinging a hand to indicate Sherlock should talk to her instead.

(He was thankful. This woman clearly had no sense of propriety, John was his. Surely she could see that.)

She turned back and looked right through him. Well, John was attractive but really. It was almost insulting. Sherlock politely gave a little cough and her eyes flickered back to him for a moment.

"Hi, we are friends on Gus's and-"

"Friends?"

Ah so he was unlikeable... or a loner.

"Well yes. He is helping us design our new home and-"

"He got an actual job!"

"Yes."

If she was going to keep interrupting then he was going to lose the happy polite persona he had adopted. Very quickly. (And especially if she was going to keep glancing at John like that.)

"That's wonderful. I'm sorry I haven't seen Gus for almost a week so..."

"Ah, he said the drawing would be in his office. You wouldn't mind letting us pop in there and get them would you?"

He gave her his best charming smile and this time she glanced down and back up fluttering her eyelashes at him instead. What a fickle woman. It was a lucky thing John wasn't looking for female companionship; this one clearly would've been a bad choice.

"I'm sorry but I can't let you, I'm not allow-"

Suddenly John was beside them, leaning over the counter and he licked his lips slowly, eyes trailing first over the desk and then over her. It was obvious, it was predatory and it **worked**. She grinned and John grinned back at her.

"Please? We are on a tight schedule and I don't know what we would do if we couldn't get the plans..."

The woman sighed and tilted her head. "Well I suppose, as it is you..."

Turning away she began rifling through a key cabinet beneath the desk and Sherlock raised his eyebrows at his lover. John shrugged. (As much as he hated John acting in any way like that to anybody but himself, it_ was_ effective and oddly...alluring.)

The woman turned back and basically draped the keyring over Johns waiting palm, a slip of paper blatantly placed beside it. "I can help you find it if you want?"

Her eyes were completely focussed on John and she quirked a hip to the side, licking her lips and flicking her hair. Sherlocks pleasant smile dropped and he took both the key and the number from John's hand walking towards the staircase.

"No. its fine we can find it ourselves."

He could hear the doctor apologising behind him and waited one flight up, arms crossed, reading the number over and over. "Perhaps I should put some sort of label on you."

"What, property of Sherlock Holmes? Do not engage."

That would seem about right. He glanced up and John was rather pink in the face, frowning a little.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You have gone pink."

"I was just...thinking...it doesn't matter. What room is it?"

"John as effective as your methods are I do wish you wouldn't go around picking up strange females numbers. Donovan may be wrong in calling me a psychopath but you don't have to be to commit murder. Just so you understand."

John laughed and reached out grabbing the detectives hand to yank him from his corner. "Come on, its two floors up I think, and I don't do it on purpose."

"Yes you do."

"No I really don't. What about you anyway, you can't talk. How many times has somebody come on to you whilst you've been playing friend or family or whatever takes your fancy."

Sherlock smirked. "Yes but I have never actually taken the number John. A distinct difference."

John just rolled his eyes still pulling his taller lover through the thin winding corridors that reminded Sherlock of his youth and the old detective movies mummy would allow him to watch on Sundays. (But only as a treat.)

John unlocked the door as Sherlock checked his messages, Lestrade mentioned something about a case but it was clear it could be something to do with Nico and he needed to first understand who this man was and what he had done before he decided whether he was going to hand him over to the police or Irene.

The doctor disappeared inside and Sherlock followed him glancing up from his mobile.

He froze.

It was the room from his dream, same cluttered walls, same study wooden desk. Same closet John was about to open.

"No!"

John jumped clear from the closet and put a hand to his chest, staring at Sherlock like he had finally lost it. "**What**?"

Oh how embarrassing. It was, after all, just a dream. "Nothing. Sorry."

John shook his head and reached for the handle again, unaware his lover was now clutching his phone so tight his hands were shaking, the door swung open to reveal... an equally cluttered closet full of paper files and odd letters, books, pens and cardboard boxes.

Oh.

Sherlock glanced back to the office space and again something struck him as strange. The desk, it was strewn with paper but...different. "John, John look at the desk."

"What? I don't...see anything. What?"

"Look really look at it. Something isn't right."

"Okay..."

Sometimes he despaired. "Look at everywhere else John, what can you say about it?"

"It's a mess."

"Yes _and_..."

"It's just a mess Sherlock."

He sighed and stamped forwards throwing himself into the large creaking wooden chair behind the desk, hands on the edge as he glared first around the room and then at the space in front of himself.

"Yes it is a mess, but its _ordered_ mess. See the files are lined up there, paper is stacked, and pens are grouped. But here, look the paper is just everywhere, pens without lids, and marks from where something was stuck here..."

John leant down next to him and frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means Mr. Nico has already had a visitor. But...I don't think they found what they were looking for."

"Why?"

"We would've found a body by now John."

"Ah. Well what were they looking for then?"

"I'm not sure."

His eyes caught something on the wall and he grinned. "But I think I know where it is."

He leapt up, brushing past John to get to the posters that littered the wall. A world map, old fashioned movie posters and some for a film called the wrath of khan and a large detailed blueprint of a space ship similar to the one on the poster.

Several other poster with crumpled edges and finger marks covered the wall and amongst them all a single, speckles, poster for 'Star Wars', hung straight, upright. It was new, obviously put to replace something that had been there before and Sherlock beamed reaching up to rip it off the wall.

"Sherlock! You can't do that!"

"He doesn't care for this one John."

"You can't know that."

"Really? Mixing star trek and star wars? The other posters are rare; difficult to find no doubt and yet this one is something you could get anywhere."

Behind the space covered by the poster there was a small hidden drawer, with a hole for a key. John gasped just behind him and Sherlock smirked. (After all that was one of Johns best features. His continued amazement when Sherlock noticed the obvious.)

"Where is the key then?"

He span back around, surprising the doctor who had been leaning just over his shoulder and was now almost chest to chest with him. The taller man quirked an eyebrow and John blushed a little stepping aside. He flew back over to the desk surveying the room as he went.

"The key would be somewhere reachable..."

John titled his head and joined him behind the desk, leaning down on his heels. "Sherlock-"

"It would be somewhere obvious only to Nico..."

"Sherlock."

"It would be somewhere hidden in plain sight."

John reached out in front of him and picked up the ring of keys that lay under the paper. Surely it wouldn't be that obvious. John twisted them over in his hands picking out a large and rather hideous keyring, sliding a nail down the side and popping it open to reveal a hidden cavity in which lay an old fashioned iron key.

(This sent a familiar shiver down his spine and he forced himself to concentrate on the work and not at throwing himself on top of his lover. Oh how he found Johns higher than average ability to spot what Sherlock didn't attractive.)

John grinned and picked it up rounding the desk to open the drawer. It took him a few tries but eventually the aged wood creaked out and he reached inside pulling out a thin manila envelope with a pink post it note attached, written in clear black hand writing a phone number and several exclamation points underneath it.

The doctor frowned but Sherlock jumped to his feet jumping clear over the desk to pull the pink note off the front of the envelope.

"I know exactly where to go next."

He wound through the tables, John close at his heels, apologising to people he had knocked into on the way. "Sebastian."

The man stopped his conversation and spun slowly in his seat, shock registering on his face for a moment before he plastered it with a wide smarmy grin. "Sherlock Holmes."

He turned back to the other men at the table and gestured towards the detective. "Guys I think you remember Sherlock."

The detective glanced around the table and fought back a scowl. It was Sebastian's flat mates and his tormentors. Oh how lovely to see them again.

"And his friend, doctor Watson."

"I'm not his friend."

The other men went quiet and sniggered between themselves Sebastian slapping a hand to his forehead with a glint in his eye. "Oh of course, my apologies. You are his _colleague_."

Sherlock was frozen. Surely John wouldn't do that to him, again.

"No actually, I'm his partner."

"Partner? Isn't that the same thing?" Sebastian scoffed, glancing at his friends as though John was being particularly dense.

Sherlock stepped forwards a little, allowing the tiny flutter of his heart to go to his head for a mere second and John let out a breath through his nose. "Actually it really isn't. If you will excuse us gentlemen Sebastian here needs to have a word with us."

He was using the voice, and after a second of fierce eye contact the slightly confused but still smirking man got to his feet. John reached out and grasped him by the shoulder, he then turned without a word and placing a hand in the small of Sherlocks back, walked him towards the bathrooms, frogmarching the spluttering Sebastian with his other hand.

They entered the bathroom and the banker took a step away from the doctor. Sherlock however took a step closer to him. His mind warred between his twin obsessions, the work and whatever John was doing. (He politely stashed the grin that threatened to break out on his face for when they were back at the flat or at least...whenever he could get John alone.)

"Partner eh? Funny. Didn't think you were the queer type."

The detective rolled his eyes and thrust the envelope towards Sebastian. "This man called you. I need to know why."

"Surely you could work it out." He chortled at his own comment and glanced at John, the smirk sliding of his face. He pulled the sheets of paper form in the envelope and scanned them with his eyes. "Oh yeah, I remember this guy. Nervous type, wanted to know who held these accounts and what they were using them for. I couldn't tell him obviously. Private accounts aren't really for public eyes."

"So who did you think he suspected they belonged to?"

"God knows. I go him out of my office as soon as I could. I tell you what though; he seemed a bit too... pathetic to be striding about demanding to know about accounts worth this much."

"He was scared then."

Sebastian glanced at John and nodded vaguely. "Yeah, Kept glancing around and when he spotted the CCTV camera he all but ran out of there."

Sherlock sighed. So this Nico character was most likely just a civilian who had stumbled something he hadn't understood the importance of...interesting.

"Thank you Sebastian."

John nodded and made for the door snatching the envelope from Sebastian's grasp. On his way past Sherlock leant in a little to speak quietly into the slightly shorter man's ear.

"I'm surprised you hadn't realised my predilections before _Seb_, after all you of all people should know what I like..."

"What? What do you mean?"

"You really don't remember that night in December, final year? Come now. I certainly remember you waking up in my bed..."

Sherlock grinned wolfishly and whipped around the door leaving Sebastian to turn a delightful deep red and to splutter like an over boiling kettle.

When they got outside John glanced up at him. "You slept with him?"

"Oh no."

"What...but you said-"

"I said I thought he would remember waking up in my bed in December, I didn't say that the fact he had gotten drunk and ended up in the wrong room, crushing me as I attempted to sleep, was another matter. Nothing happened."

"Then why would you say that?"

"Sebastian has a low tolerance for alcohol and can frequently recall nothing of his night's actions the next day."

"So you did it just to aggravate him."

"Perhaps he would be less judgemental if he thought he had his own secret to keep."

He was stretched out on the sofa the sounds of John watching TV and rumbling of traffic outside melting into the background as he thought through everything he knew already. His mind focussed in particular on one question. Who would be looking for this man? Who would hire Irene to find him?

Whoever it was, they could be the clue to cracking exactly what Nico had uncovered and what had happened to him.

"John. Phone."

He lay in wait but it never came. Cracking open an eye he tried again. "John _phone_!"

Still no movement, he opened both eyes and sat up on his elbows. The doctor was dozing in his chair, eyes closed soft snores. How bloody useless. Sherlock rolled off the sofa, landing expertly on his feet and strode across the room.

He knew the phones were on the doctor somewhere he just had to find them, bending down his eyes caught on the doctor laptop screen. An unfinished blog post, half written. John must've fallen asleep whilst writing it.

He read the title glanced to the doctor and then gently took the entire laptop off the side unit, slumping back into his own armchair to read.

**A future.**

_I don't even know why I am writing this. I won't post it. Bloody hell, I just had to put it down somewhere. I love Sherlock, I do and I never thought that would happen to me. I especially didn't expect the person I fell in love with to be so very different to me but I honestly wouldn't change him for the world. Okay that is a lie, I wouldn't mind if he did a little more washing up or just didn't leave body parts next to the dinner I have to cook that night. Not to mention... No I shouldn't complain. The thing that really surprises me is that I can see myself having a future with him, that is just crazy isn't it. I mean, the likelihood I will get killed just working with him is pretty high but then I guess that is part of what is so attractive about him or at least that is what Mycroft thinks. I am definitely not posting this, nobody wants to hear this. Or read this I suppose. Am I honestly considering spending the rest of my life with him? Am I seriously considering asking him-_

It ended there.

Sherlock stared at the screen reading and re-reading it several times. There was something about it that was so very important. Perhaps it was that it was clearly not meant for anybody but John's eyes, it was completely personal. This is what John would consider on the no-go list.

(A delightful little note that John had given him a few weeks into their shared lives. It told Sherlock of the few things he was never allowed to mention, ask or say out loud, even if he figured it out through extraordinary means. He had failed to mention that on the list was anything pertaining to John's love life. Something he clearly was allowed to talk about now. Better not to mention it.)

Sherlock took a deep breath and slowly put it back where John had left it, gazing down at his sleeping lover. His heart was in his throat and he swallowed hard, the words running around and around in his head, did he mention it to John? Did he tell him he had read the post, even if only by accident?

No. That wouldn't be wise. John would get mad.

(Although he really _really_ wanted to know what it was about. The fact that John wanted to spend the rest of his life with him had made a warm feeling settle on his chest along with a weird sort of excited energy he didn't understand.)

He sighed and reached down towards him, rifling through his pockets until he found his phone. He was still perched on the edge of his own chair like a bird of prey as John moaned and grunted his way into consciousness, and he patted himself down before blinking blearily at Sherlock.

He frowned and then glanced sideways his eyes widening for a split second before he reached out, slamming the laptop shut.

"Eurgh, uh what are you doing?"

"Huh? Oh I was just texting Irene."

John licked his lips glancing from the laptop to Sherlock and back. "Oh right...have you been using the laptop?"

Sherlock glanced up and made a vaguely surprised face as though he hadn't even noticed it was there. "No...I don't have enough credit. Give me your phone."

John sighed and reached down the side of the chair, swapping phones with his lover. "Why are you texting her? Did you find him while I was asleep?"

"No but I need to know who hired her."

"Why?"

Sherlock didn't answer, he just input his message and waited for it to send, eyes on the screen. "You tell me." It was always fun to see what John made of things.

"So, Nico found something that scared him but he didn't understand so he took it to Sebastian. Irene was hired by someone who wanted to find him...the owner of the accounts."

Sherlock grinned and glanced up to him. (He was getting better at this. It really was surprisingly attractive.)

John smiled. "So if you know who is looking for him you can find out what was so important about the accounts. What they were doing with them."

"_Precisely_."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews guys! Please tell me what you think about this one, I'm dying to know.**

He kept his eyes screwed shut. John was bumbling around the bedroom, changing for bed, blissfully unaware Sherlock was still awake. He would never sing to himself like that, fully aware Sherlock would desire to know where he had heard such a preposterous melody, aware he would be questioned his song choice desecrated until he was sick of hearing it over and over.

Yes, blissfully unaware and when he slipped between the sheets pausing for a moment, probably gazing down at his lover to check he was really asleep, the detective tensed only momentarily. Sherlock gave a half hearted throaty snore and John sighed pressing an all too gentle kiss to his brow. The detective waited, John nudged up beside him curling into his side and then uncurling restlessly.

Perhaps he would not alone again. Perhaps tonight John would join him in the early hours of blank staring, of endless chattering thoughts as his eyes wept from his gaze fixed on flickering orange lights.

But it was not to be and John fell into the arms of Morpheus, unencumbered, peaceful and Sherlock hated it, hated him.

How could John achieve something so simple, so basic and yet Sherlock was tortured by the images behind his eyelids, the flashes of dread and cold vice like fear that forced his eyes open, that made his mind scream and wail until he was doomed to lie for hour after hour. It seemed to him as though time was making a mockery, days passed and yet John didn't wake, the sun didn't rise and he didn't sleep. It did nothing to slow his mind, his at first piercing gaze fattening, sluggish and now dead, up at the ceiling.

He thought after a moment of quiet if he had already slept his brow creasing as he fought to remember that hour. Had he really? But as he rolled his tongue around his dry mouth, hands shaking and fragile in the moonlight he knew he hadn't. It was the wishful thinking of a sleep joshing mind. He slapped a hand to his face and took deep breaths, forcing his eyes closed, they stayed unexpectedly black and he relaxed for just mere seconds before the images flashed and he opened them again, eyes rolling in his head.

But his mind roared onwards taking in every heart beat of his lover, every shivery breath and the voices of drunken crowds stumbling to collapse in a heap somewhere, to pass out in rapture. It made his skin feel dry and his own body felt alien, holding him here, so unwilling to move and yet he was not comfortable, simply held in place by sand filled limbs and his desperate desire.

He thought to himself not to be afraid.

It was just a dream and dreams are nothing more than the random firing of neurons, a simple scientific observation that did nothing to sooth his mind. His head ached, his teeth clenched and yet he couldn't relax, couldn't stop the tensing of his arms as he fought with himself. He desperately desired sleep but it never came and the next morning when John awoke, again kissing him on the brow before slipping out quietly as though not to wake the detective, only made his chest ache more as he snapped his eyes open in time with the clicking of the door handle.

He was laid out arms splayed to the sides sheet spooled at his waist. He wrenched himself from the bed ignoring the desire to sink back into the warm spot John had left. To bury his face in the pillow in the hopes that something so longed for, so familiar would sooth him. It hadn't worked the day before it wouldn't work now.

He leapt from the bed, aching tired muscles protesting but he didn't let up, his usual springing steps and sleek movements not forfeited despite his agonising body. A weak shell that so wished to collapse to sleep. But there was no time for that, he was to get out, to find Irene, to solve the case and then perhaps if his mind would allow such a basic desire he would finally sleep.

Free of dreams free of the shadowy figure and echoing laugh.

John was perched in his chair when he finally made it downstairs after a bone numbing cold shower (He had to force his mind to focus. It had worked in the past. Not so much now.) He smiled up at his lover something dropping behind his eyes as Sherlock came properly in to view.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"You sure...you look a little grey."

Sherlock said nothing he simply slumped onto his sofa, an arm resting over his eyes. The leather was cold against his back and it seeped slowly through the material of his shirt and pants comforting the tired pull of his muscles enough to clear his mind and he sighed. John was stood over him when he opened his eyes.

"Tea?" The doctor gestured with a tall elegant black mug he had picked out for Sherlock. It was designed to be unbreakable. (Sherlock had bought several after he had broken the first one. John hadn't noticed yet.)

He sighed again and flung his legs over so he was sitting up; elbows leant on his wide splayed legs. He took the steaming mug from his lover and held it close to his face, inhaling the fumes and the too sweet scent of John interpretation of what accounted to a good cup of tea. Too many spoons of sugar, hardly any milk, strong enough to stain the teeth for days.

It was heaven and he smiled Johns answering grin hesitant at first. He sniffed and turned away pottering back into the kitchen, his voice carrying out strong and attention grabbing. (It was so helpful to have someone to help capture his mind; it was more focussed now but still less though than normal. He was running on half his power and yet it seemed okay. At least whilst John was talking.)

"So, any closer to finding Irene?"

"I have tracked her movements. I believe she will be at Madame Flashettes tonight."

There was a moment's pause and then John was back at the sliding doors to the kitchen, toes poking out from under his (Sherlocks actually since the detective had destroyed every one of Johns in an experiment judging whether they would hold sufficient weight to be used as a rope when tied together. They were insufficient.) pyjama bottoms, hair still sleep rumpled and cream t-shirt with a tea stain on the bottom seam. His skin was creamy in the cold light of day, eyes impossibly large and currently twitching as though Sherlock was making some sort of amusing comment.

"The strip club?"

"You know it?" (Well wasn't he a dark horse.)

John chuckled a slight blush rising up his neck. "Yeah."

"A stag night."

John tilted his head "Go on."

Sherlock smiled. "It was too simple. You are much too embarrassed by sexual situations in the company of others and much too private of your own predilections to choose a strip club yourself."

The doctor sighed and shrugged, taking a sip from his own mug. (A bright red regimental mug. He had several in different colours and although the perfect size to be used in an experiment Sherlock desperately wanted to conduct John had banned him from even as much as looking at them for too long. A blight on the progress of science.)

He opened his mouth as if to say something as Sherlock took a long draught of the still slightly too hot tea. It burned his throat and clung to his teeth and he relaxed a little, slumping into the cushions as it slipped streaking heat down to his stomach.

John frowned and crossed the room, setting his mug on the side table and bending over the side to rifle through his laptop bag. Sherlock admired the view raising his eyebrows when John spun on the spot holding the red sweater.

(He had been looking for that.)

The doctor jostled it in his hands for a moment before smiling and throwing it at the sofa. It landed over Sherlocks legs and he looked down at it and then up to see John was stood at is knees. He reached out a hand and slipped it around the detectives neck pulling his face up to press a kiss first to his lips and then to his forehead.

"Come on. Work to do."

They spent the day successfully avoiding any and all calls and texts from Lestrade. They had even managed to avoid Mycroft's slick black car by abruptly hurtling down an alleyway, clinging to the rooftops and skirting their way back to Nico's offices in a last ditch attempt to check for what he could've found. The receptionist was missing when they got to the desk and Sherlock simply went around and took the key from the cabinet.

John protested of course but it was irrelevant.

He led the way this time, unlocking the office door to find that not only had someone been there again but this time they had trashed the office. Paper was everywhere, the drawer pulled clean out of the wall desk up turned. John groaned behind him.

"Well of we were ever going to found anything, we won't now. It will take hours to look through all these papers."

Sherlock growled and slammed the door shut. He needed to talk to Irene. Now.

They made their way back downstairs and Sherlock grumbled under his breath. "Typical. Now the only way to solve this is to talk to that harpy again."

"Perhaps not."

John grinned at him and then took the keys from his hand, skirting around the corner to walk slowly towards the now manned desk. "Hey."

The woman jumped gain and John caught the falling stapler in one hand slowly coming up to stand a bit too close to her. "Hello."

"I'm sorry I didn't catch your name..."

"It's Claire..."

"John."

She smiled and he put the stapler on the desk. "Hello John, back again?"

"Yeah. Unfortunately we missed a part of the plans so..."

"What about your friend, the tall one with all the hair?"

"Ah he decided to stay at home this time."

"Home? You live together."

"Yeah, you know London prices..."

"Oh. So you don't live with a girlfriend or..."

John smiled warmly and leant against the desk. Sherlock snarled under his breath but stayed where he was hidden in the shadows of the staircase. "No, no girlfriend."

The phone rang and she blushed deeply, nodding to herself. "One minute."

She turned away and Sherlock quickly strode around the corner past the desk and out of the door. He had caught up to the doctor's plan straight away. He was going to charm information about Nico from her. Ingenious but irritating to watch.

He was thankful for the slightly too cold breeze that buffeted him as he leant against the brick wall, it calmed him down enough that he managed to stay there.(After all it would've been bad from to step from the shadows and punch a woman. Even if she kept looking at Johns lips.)

The doctor followed him out a few minutes later, still grinning. Sherlock walked with him towards the curb and flung out an arm hailing a cab without as much as an inch of effort. It smoothly drew up beside them and John hopped in ahead of him, the grin sliding off his face when he saw Sherlocks awkward bend to climb in.

(His vision lurched slowly as he bent and his muscles reminded him violently on the tense nights he spent wide awake.) He sank into the seat, melting into the background for a moment as John talked to the cabbie. When he settled back against his shoulder, face propped on the ice cold window. John leant over.

"So I got a date with Claire tonight."

That woke him up. He turned to face the doctor frowning. Was this allowed? Surely not.

"A date..."

"Yeah. She wasn't telling me much so I asked her out. She is more likely to tell me more if it seems natural...well I thought it's the sort of thing you'd do..."

"You are going on a date with some strange woman."

"I'm not going for fun Sherlock. It's work."

Sherlock frowned. All the false energy the work had given him seemed to drain from his bones at once and he put a hand to his face closing his eyes. He heard John suck in a breath and then warm fingers circled his wrist pulling his hand away.

"Sherlock. Listen to me."

He could hardly wrench his eyes open but he managed it, somehow. John was peering across at him, earnest and almost frantic as he licked his lips, Sherlocks eyes following the movement sluggishly. (After all, even in a sleep deprived state his body valiantly carried on lusting for John, needling for him.)

"I am only doing this to help you with this case okay? I can call her and we can look for leads somewhere else."

"No...But I am coming too."

John chuckled softly and patted him on the knee."I wouldn't expect anything less."

John was clearly embarrassed to be at the club, sticking close to his lover and blushing deeply when the doorman nodded them in with a knowing smirk. Sherlock focussed straight away on Irene from far across the too brightly lit room, the music was too loud and he could feel it reverberating in his chest as woman danced and gyrated around them. He walked forwards but John wasn't with him. He was staring as a woman slipped down the pole nearest to him, grinning and sliding a hand down herself.

Sherlock blinked then snorted and carried onwards, hands on hips as he came to stand still at the head of Irene's table. She looked up from her drink and sighed dramatically.

"I knew you'd find me eventually."

"I need to know who hired you."

"I'm sorry darling, but I can't help you."

Sherlock smirked and pulled out his phone waving it at her before holding it to his head. "You do realise I have the full force of the London police department on speed dial. I could just mention to Lestrade that-"

"You wouldn't."

"Really? You honestly think I wouldn't?"

Irene sighed again and her eyes drifted off for a moment. "I see you brought the doctor."

"Yes."

"I'd keep an eye on that adorable little pet of yours; after all he has been standing there a bit too long."

Sherlock glanced over to where John was stood nervously by a pillar, glancing his way and then at the woman and then back to him. "Irene. I am not playing games with you. I want a name."

She sighed and got to her feet, sliding up close to him to whisper in his ear. "Follow me outside, can't have them knowing this is anything but pleasure."

Sherlock turned his head away and glanced at John who was watching them now less nervous more intent. (See how he liked it.) She reached down and grabbed his hand, pulling him weaving through the crowds to the back door. Sherlock waggled his eyebrows at John in a move that meant wait for me outside. He didn't get a chance to see if he understood before he was through the velvet curtains and out the back door, Irene giggling and pulling on his arm.

The alleyway was freezing and she pulled a little further down glancing both ways before leaning in close. "His name is Noah."

"The mob boss?"

She hissed at him and Sherlock side stepped to avoid a well aimed heel. "Yes big mouth, the mob boss. Now, if this goes wrong you have to promise me you will get me out."

"Irene Adler, needing help?"

"He is a dangerous guy Sherlock, more dangerous than you know."

"If you need it I suppose I could help you out."

"It's not _you_ I need. It's that brother of yours."

"Mycroft? What can _Mycroft_ do that **I** can't." (He was sick of this. He was better than his stupid brother in every way.)

"He can make people disappear. Now don't be such a petulant child. Ah I see your doctor has arrived."

Sherlock glanced up at and Johns black outline filled the end of the alleyway, he grinned. She slapped him on the chest forcing his gaze back to her for a moment. A soft sigh and she shook her head, smirking up at him. "Boy, you have got it bad haven't you."

Sherlocks grin didn't even waver and she titled her head, turning away with a wave of her hand. "Good bye Sherlock."

John reached him just as the door closed behind her. "So?"

"Noah."

He was silent for a long time. John just stared up at him bewildered. "Am I supposed to know who that is?"

"He is a mob boss, and there is only one person who can help us now."

John sighed and turned away, hands on hips. Sherlock peeled himself from the grimy wall and started off back to the main street. (He decided not to mention that John didn't seem even a tiny bit jealous of Irene. It was unfair really.)

In the taxi he slumped sideways staring bleakly out at the passing streets. It was raining now, heavy and hard and the wind seemed unnaturally loud. In fact it seemed unearthly and he sat up, feeling for once as though he had slept the whole night through. He was alone in the cab and Sherlock cursed.

Yes he was asleep, but this was _not_ a good dream. There was a rumble and he glanced up to the driver's seat, no driver, no John, nothing outside the walls of the cab expect pure white and the distant sound of rain. That is until a hand slammed against the rear window, long pale fingers, nail scratching against the glass as they dragged slowly around to the window opposite to be joined by another hand.

A giggle that made his blood run cold and-

"**FUCK**!"

He jolted awake. Mere minutes of sleep interrupted as the cabbie shifted his cab abruptly to the right to avoid a speeding black sedan at the intersection. Sherlock shuffled up in his seat just enough to peer out as it crashed in to a signpost at the side of the road, the door clunking open and just as they turned a corner he could've sworn he'd seen well toed heel drop to the floor, followed by a suited pant leg.

He sucked in a haggard breath and John chuckled breathlessly along with the driver who swore a sting of expletives under his breath. "That was close."

"Nutters these days...you know I bet he was-"

The cabbies inspired rant melted off into the distance as Sherlock clutched his face, sinking low in his seat. (He was sure it was no accident but then...had he simply imagined the foot, had it been inconsequential? Was it just his tired mind imagining wild theories to try and shock him into life. Perhaps.)

John was getting ready for his date. Sherlock was curled up in the doctors chair, red sweater sleeves pulled up and his face was buried in them. For a moment he dreamt he was slipping into sleep but then John called his name and he jolted his head upwards.

Well. That was just _obscene_.

John was dressed in a dark blue shirt, open a few buttons at the neck, a thin black tie, his hair slightly tousled and swept to the side. (It was getting too long and John ran his hands through it too much. But he would never mention that, he liked the longer hair on the doctor but his military training had engraved the brutal crop into John and he wasn't going to change that.) Slightly tighter than normal jeans and comfortable sensible shoes.

He had put aftershave on and Sherlock could smell it from his space on the armchair as the doctor walked towards him. Spicy, but not too strong.

He frowned. John was putting too much effort into this.

"You remember the plan."

_Fuck the plan_. "You are not going out dressed like that."

"You sound like my mother. What do you mean?"

Sherlock pouted and John walked right over to him, sliding a hand into the dark curls of his lover and cradling his head as he stared up at him. Sherlocks chest seized up and he sucked in a breath. John looked what most people would call beautiful, gentle smile, his warm welcoming eyes, his stomach soft and comforting as Sherlock leant his forehead against him, burying his face into the fresh clean fabric of his shirt. He breathed it in and Johns fingers tensed a little in his hair, stomach rumbling as he chuckled.

"You look too nice."

"Too nice?"

"Too sexy. It's not fair. You never dress up like that for me."

"We have never been on a date."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but John bent down and pressed a soft two second kiss to his lips, thumb rubbing against the back of his skull in a way that seemed almost insultingly nice. "No. Spending four hours in a restaurant while you don't eat, I eat way too much and we don't talk is not a date."

He sighed and John grinned at him. "Plan?"

He sighed. (They totally counted as dates. After all they had eaten in a restaurant together. Just them. Surely that **was **a date.)

"You take a taxi to her place pick her up. I wait here for half an hour before heading to the restaurant, get my table don't interfere. I am not to walk past you, call you, talk to you or make a scene elsewhere in the restaurant just to get your attention. If I notice something I should indicate I am going to the bathroom and you will follow as soon as possible."

"Brilliant. Good boy."

Sherlock batted the doctors hands away but they slid down to cup his face and he lifted the detectives chin. He kissed him softly again, slow and lingering and Mrs. Hudson appeared on the stairs, blushing and flapping her arms around.

"Tsk, boys!"

Sherlock sighed and the doctor glanced sideways. Mrs. Hudson put a hand over her eyes and waved behind herself. "John dear there is a taxi for you outside."

The doctor pulled away pecked Sherlocks forehead and was gone. Mrs Hudson patted him on the back as he strode out and stood in the doorway for a few moments in silence. "Sherlock, would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes Mrs. Hudson."

"You don't look well...is everything alright?"

"Everything is fine."

"Alright dear, no need to snap. I'll put that kettle on."

He entered the restaurant, his eyes scanning over the table. Ah there they were, ordering drinks it seemed. Johns eyes flickered from the list to the waiter and then to him his grin not fading as he looked away.

There, he had seen him. Good.

Sherlocks seat was in a booth across the room from John's table and he was half hidden in the shadow of a large planter, he ordered a barley water and a small starter to ensure he was allowed to keep his table. He wouldn't be eating much.

From his position he could see her in perfect profile, she was chatting animatedly and John was laughing and nodding in all the right places. Sherlock was forced to look away from his burning gaze of hatred as the waiter arrived and placed his starter down, along with his drink.

"Anything else sir?"

"What? No nothing else."

The man swayed away from him and Sherlock took a sip of his drink. This was going to be a long night.

After almost forty minutes of watching John chatter and flirt with the woman he snapped. John's eyes hadn't flickered up to him in ages and when they finally did Sherlock nodded towards the bathrooms insistently before getting to his feet and slipping into the mercifully empty and cool men's room to wait. (He wasn't quite sure what he was going to do, but to get John alone and away from that woman for five minutes would relieved some of the burning jealousy in his gut that made his frown and snarl into his food.).

As soon as John was through the door Sherlock gripped him by the arms, pushing him back until he hit the wall, crowding his space. He pushed in kissing him fiercely all teeth and tongue. John grunted in surprise but kissed him back and when he pulled them apart, panting onto the doctors shoulder for a moment the doctor gasped.

"What was-"

"Just reminding you that you are already in a relationship."

John sighed and Sherlock caught his lips again hands moving from Johns arms to splay out on the wall on either side of his head. The doctor sucked on his tongue and Sherlock moaned this distracting him from the fact the shorter mans hands had moved from Sherlocks waist, sliding up his arms to link fingers with him as they braced against the wall.

It was too late to stop him when John bit down on his bottom lip eliciting a rather loud groan and he flipped them right over, at once holding Sherlocks hands together above his head, and then pressing forwards to pin his hips against the wall with his own. Sherlock swallowed a whimper and John pulled back calmly. His eyes were glowing, his lips kiss bruised, shirt rumpled and he was breathing heavily but he was in total control.

Sherlock leant forwards desperate to attach himself to the pulse point on Johns neck but the doctor rolled his hips forwards to keep him against the wall as he moved his own head back away from his lovers reach.

"This has got to stop. It's becoming insulting."

"John..."

"I told you this a hundred times if I've told you once; I am not interested in her. I am here to work Sherlock, to get data as you so relish in telling me you can't work miracles without facts and that is what I am trying to do."

Sherlock was only half listening, he licked his lips and strained forwards but Johns fingers tensed on his wrist and his hips rolled upwards again, slow and deliberate and Sherlock bit back on a moan.

"Listen to me."

He forced himself to make eye contact. John's pupils were blown, he was flushed but he looked obscenely cold. Focussed calm, in complete control of the situation and the detective whimpered for real this time. John had always been slightly more dominant than him in their relationship, but his dominant nature had never revealed itself in such an intimate way before. He had been calm and measured about his approach of sex yes, of course, but not like _this_.

"I love you. I want you. Only you."

Sherlock nodded randomly, his head bobbing up and down and John sighed, leaning in enough to allow the detective to suck and nip at his neck like a starving vampire. _Allowing_ him to.

The door suddenly burst open and a man trotted in, he stopped in his tracks catching sight of the two men entwined against the wall. John turned to face him, expression completely blank and raised an eyebrow.

The man flushed almost purple and turned back around closing the door behind him.

The doctor turned back and sighed releasing Sherlocks arms to pull him in closer for an angry biting kiss, the detective clutched at him hungrily but John gave one final roll of his hips and pulled away, striding to the sink. The detective was left with quaking knees, hands bracing against the wall as he tried to remain upright, winded and woefully unsatisfied.

John carefully smoothed his shirt, straightening his tie and running a hand through his hair.

"John!" His voice was hoarse, pleading and the doctor glanced to him, licked his lips and looked away again. "John..."

The doctor glanced back to him and finally cracked a smile.

"Sherlock I said I was going to the toilet because of an urgent work call, it would seem a bit strange if I came back with a raging hard on wouldn't it."

He had a point. Bastard.

He watched John swipe a hand over his lips, taking deep breaths and glancing self consciously at his reflection.

"There must be a way to mark you."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"To stop this happening, so everyone knows you are mine and I am yours...Well, mostly so strange woman will stop flirting with you."

John blinked at him shaking his head. His hands clenched the sink and he stared at himself in the mirror with an odd look on his face. (Sherlock wasn't sure but it seemed like the doctor was almost _fearful_. Odd.)

"How much longer."

John sighed and stepped back turning to face him, expression indecipherable. The detective got the distinct feeling he had said something wrong or in the very least, unsettling.

"Go back to baker street...get some sleep. I will be back before ten I promise."

Sherlock nodded and trotted over to him like an obedient dog. John leant up and licked the taller mans lips, kissing him firmly and with promise, a kiss he broke reluctantly.

"Go on."

Sherlock grinned and tugged on his shirt making only minimal effort to tidy himself up before leaving the doctor alone again.

His cab ride was uneventful and he spent most of it staring suspiciously at every black sedan around them. The driver didn't speak, probably too frightened. It always seemed that way. When he did get back to Baker Street he slumped on the sofa upstairs. Perhaps here in the silence and soothing cool of the flat he could get some sleep.

Regardless of nightmares he would take _anything _now.

There was a soft knock at the door and he glanced up from his position on the sofa, lifting his hands free of his face, skin aching from the kneading of his fingers as he tried to force himself to relax enough to sleep.

"Sherlock dear, there is a parcel for you at the door."

He sighed and swept to his feet, plodding past his landlady and down the stairs. She pottered after him and when he spotted the large square parcel wrapping in brittle brown paper and tied with twine he froze. Something was off about this.

"Mrs Hudson, did you bring it inside?"

"No the delivery man did."

Sherlock stood in the hallway and Mrs. Hudson moved to get past him. "No. Go back to your rooms."

She looked up at him with raised eyebrows. After a moment she turned away and headed for her door muttering under her breath about boys these days, so dramatic. Sherlock waited until she had closed the door before lurching forwards, dropping onto his hands in front of the parcel.

It was perfectly square and when he sniffed it smelt of glue, paper and an underlying scent that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He crouched on his heels lifting it slowly, careful to keep it level as he flew back up the stairs to his flat. He scuttled into the kitchen and used his foot to kick a cupboard open.

Inside he had hidden his antique safe. It was cast iron and would be capable of sustaining a bomb of this size, or should be. It depended on the exact formula really. (He considered calling John, saying something to him but there was always a danger it was on a timer and he shouldn't waste time on pointless platitudes.)

He placed it carefully on the lip and shunted it forwards millimetre by millimetre. When it was finally in he gave it another once over, just to make sure there was no note, no marking. None. He sighed and reached for the drawer above his head, scrabbling blindly for the small firecracker he was sure was in there.

Aha, pulling it down he lit it and quickly slid it in next to the box, closing and locking the safe and running into the other room, crouched behind Johns armchair. There was a booming bang from inside but no other noise and Sherlock slowly peered over the back of the armchair. Nothing seemed to have changed and he sighed slumping in relief for a moment before leaping out of the chair with a surprised yell.

Lestrade had somehow gotten in and was now looking at him like he was mad. Sherlock coughed and straightened himself from where he had leapt back, clinging to his chair in shock. "Lestrade."

"You look bloody awful."

"Why thank you."

"Why haven't you been answering me?"

"Busy."

"Where is John?"

"On a date."

"A date!"

"Yes." He put his hands on his hips and blinked at the spluttering detective.

"And you are _okay_ with that?"

"Relax. It is a work thing." (Lestrade had thankfully either not noticed Sherlocks embarrassing scream or had chosen to ignore it.)

"Sherlock, I have a missing informant and I needed-"

"Gustav Nico."

"Wha- yes, yeah that's the guy."

"He has been informing you about money laundering. Mob business."

"Yes. Yes he has. Well, he was going to at least."

"He never got to tell you what he knew."

"No. He disappeared after missing the meeting with our officer."

Sherlock sighed, if rest would not tend to him then perhaps work would. "You have come to ask me to, what, take a look around his house?"

"Yes actually."

"Alright."

He made for the door but Lestrade caught his arm on his way past. "John is on a _date_?"

"He is getting information."

"Right. Just making sure..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Yet again he was acting like the detective was incapable of looking after himself. Lestrade sighed and let him go stuffing his hands into his pockets, lifting his chin as he surveyed the taller mans face.

"You going to tell me why you look like shit then?"

"No."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Oh my god you guys. Thank you all soo much for the reviews! I am so sorry this took so long but it has been a busy week or two for me. (BTW Happy birthday love. The best we've had in a long time.) Please read and review and tell me if you think I've improved any!

He kept glancing over. Sherlock sighed, his forehead rested only slightly against the ice cold window as he stared out at the dimly lit streets. His head hurt, the brief adrenaline surge from the bomb had managed to power him into the car but it seemed his body was giving up on producing the stuff so he let his heavy eyelids slip closed for just a moment.

"What, is it flu or something?"

Sherlock growled under his breath and turned to the inspector, opening his eyes to see what almost looked like a worried expression on the man's face. How strange. "I am fine."

"Bollocks you are look at yourself!"

A hand whipped out and yanked the passenger mirror down and he looked at himself in the flickering lights. His skin was grey, large purple bags under his eyes his tired dull eyes, mouth slack, lips cracked and dry. He hadn't looked this bad since before he got clean. The detective sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair, snapping the mirror shut.

"It's nothing."

"Have you been eating?"

He rolled his eyes. It was the same tone Lestrade always used, when he acted like he was Sherlocks father and Sherlock his unruly child. (He struggled to remember exactly when he had last eaten. Certainly not at the restaurant, no more than a bite at least. But he wasn't going to tell him that.)

"Yes _father_."

Lestrade let out a long breath and sort of sighed in a defeated way."Well, at least you have John..."

They were both silent as the car sped along and Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around himself. Ah yes, John. (He considered texting him to explain why he wasn't waiting at the flat but it was only just past ten and he didn't think John would be particularly worried.) He thought about his conversation with the doctor in the restaurant bathrooms (Among other things.) and he frowned. Glancing across to the inspector he shuffled a little in his seat, opening his mouth and closing it again, how did he phrase the question?

"Go on. What is it?"

Sherlock blinked. He was getting more perceptive. Disconcerting.

"How would I go about marking John?"

"_Marking_ him. What like a tattoo or..."

"So that strange women do not ask him out on dates."

Lestrade chuckled. "Well you could always stamp property of Sherlock Holmes on his forehead."

Sherlock tilted his head. Somehow he didn't think John would go for that...unless... They pulled up at a set of lights and Lestrade, still chuckling, looked over to the thoughtful detective his smile fading.

"You're not really thinking about that are you, I was joking!"

Sherlock pouted. "Well then what do you suggest!"

Lestrade looked out of the window, back at Sherlock and then out again shaking his head a little as though he was surprised at his own thoughts. "You could always marry him."

"Marry him?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock paused. That was brilliant. "That is _brilliant_, the rings! Of course! But... two men cannot marry..."

Lestrade frowned at him. Ah, he had said something wrong.

"Yes they can...sort of."

"They can?"

"You seriously didn't know that?"

"No. What do you mean sort of?"

"Technically it's a civil partnership not a marriage."

"Oh. Why can't I marry John?"

"I don't know."

"Does he still have to wear a ring?"

"Well...yes he doesn't have to but yes rings can be part of it."

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose that will do...unless I can convince Mycroft to make gay marriage legal."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "He can do that?"

"Do not underestimate him."

They pulled up outside an over lit crime scene. It was Nico's house, forensic teams wandering in and out, halogen lamps making it much too bright, cold breath and snow highlighted by the beams. Sherlock slipped out of the door and wrapped his coat around his shoulders, crossing his arms and wandering towards the door, that's when the proverbial black sedan slid up behind Lestrade's car.

The door flew open and John jumped out followed by Becker. He turned at the last second shaking the other mans hand and Becker smiled glancing Sherlocks way and nodding in his direction before jumping back into the car, all in one slick movement. John grinned and then turned back catching sight of his flatmate and licking his lips, crossing the space with a gentle jog. Sherlock grinned; he was so excited that he had found the solution to his problem. He couldn't wait to tell the doctor.

"John! We are getting married!"

The doctor stopped in his tracks and went pink, eyes wide, mouth forming a thin straight line. After a seconds pause he rushed forwards and grabbed Sherlock by the arm dragging him a small way over to the road, away from the nosy technicians.

"And that is how you ask me?"

"You are supposed to _ask_?"

John shook his head, eyes wide. He paced back and forth for a second before turning back, his eyes softening when he saw the confused expression on Sherlocks face. He stepped towards him and placed his hands on the detectives' biceps making sure to make eye contact, his voice low and careful.

"Yes Sherlock. You are supposed to ask. In fact, I just got back from discussing getting engaged to you with Mycroft."

"You went to see Mycroft?"

"Technically he kidnapped me."

Ah. Of course. His brother would've been keeping tabs on them and seeing John on a date with some strange woman probably aroused his suspicions.

"Oh...John, will you marry me?"

John bit his lip glancing to the side and back. "I really want to but... I had this stupid plan and I was going to get a ring..."

"So you are saying no?"

"No no, of course I am saying yes."

Sherlock frowned. John had put thought into this, it was obvious and he clearly didn't want to hurt whatever feelings he perceived Sherlock would have by saying no or insisting on doing it his way. (And he certainly didn't want to hurt John.)

"Say no."

"No, Sherlock I just said I am saying _yes_."

"No. Say no. If you say no then you can ask me and I can say yes and get a ring."

John froze rubbing his hands over his face. He looked sad. "John?"

"Fine, no I don't want to marry you."

Ouch. His chest pulsed and he sucked in a breath. Okay so even though he didn't mean it, it fucking **hurt**. John clenched his teeth and leant forwards grabbing Sherlock and pulling him in close for a almost desperate kiss.

"Sherlock. I am going to get a ring and then we **will** get engaged okay?"

The detective sighed and held onto him for a second. "When?"

"I'm not going to tell you. It has to be a surprise." He was smiling now and Sherlock pouted. Well that wasn't fair. John looked away from him and waved a hand at Lestrade who wandered over. (He wanted to argue and demand a time and a date but Johns hands were still on him and his lips were still close enough to reach. So he didn't.)

"Did you tell Sherlock to ask me to marry him?"

Lestrade's eyes grew wide and he waved his hands in front of his face. "I did not tell him to do anything. He kept asking me how to mark you so I told him you could get married."

John sighed. "Remember this is Sherlock we are talking about. If you mention something like that to him he is automatically going to assume that's what he needs to do and then he will do it."

Lestrade shrugged.

The house was tiny, walls lined with books and papers. In fact it looked startlingly like his office except here there was a leather chair next to a large antique wooden desk, a surprisingly modern computer, unvarnished wood floors and bare walls. It smelt musty, and Sherlock paused, there was something familiar there... he wove past the crime scene investigators and slipped into the cupboard sized kitchen.

Ah of course. Tea.

He flicked the copper kettle off the stove and turned hands on hips to find John in the doorway. "Well?"

Sherlock grinned and strode past him eyes roaming over every page, every scrap of writing, the jumper on the cracked sofa, and the spot of blood Anderson was about to step on. "**Stop**!"

Anderson froze and spun on his heel. "What?"

"Blood, there."

The investigator looked down and rolled his eyes. A tiny trial of blood was seeping out from under a thick plush rug, its black colour hiding the rest of the pool. Sherlock beamed and Anderson began lifting it gently off the floor, grumbling under his breath, leaving the detective to barrel past the other people and up the stairs, tearing around the tiny house as his mind sucked in the data like a suffocating fish gasping in the air.

When he managed to reach the downstairs corridor again two strong hands clamped down on his arms and he paused panting, his heart was hammering in his chest and his limbs were numb. His mind however was alive and running violently, thoughts a mile a minute in his head and Sherlock grinned wildly, his eyes alight. John smirked up at him and gripped tighter.

"Okay. Calm down. Take a breath."

Sherlock let out a long breath and tried to calm himself, calm his heart, but John was still wearing that outfit and his hair was still rumpled that way and he had his hands on him and he was smiling and the detective pushed forwards licking his lips and trying to push his way into Johns mouth. The doctor kissed him back for just a minute before resting his forehead against the detectives for a second and pulling away.

"Okay? You calm now?"

He thought about it. His heart rate hadn't slowed but his mind had been blissfully blank for a moment and had resumed at a slower, more ordered speed. (John really _really_ did look stunning. He had loosened his tie; shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Sherlock really wanted to keep kissing him but Johns eyes were flickering back and forth like he was waiting for an answer.)

"Yes."

John grinned and stepped back right into the path of Donovan. He moved away from her and towards Sherlock, frowning. The taller man however began positively beaming because just behind her was Lestrade and he had the stern father-face on. This was going to be priceless.

"Sally Donovan. What a surprise to see you here."

"I'm sorry."

He raised an eyebrow and leant forwards, hands held behind his back in the dim lights of the hallway. Investigators were beginning to turn and stare and he licked his lips. "Pardon?"

She glared, her eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms. Lestrade put a hand to his face and coughed, with purpose. A warning.

"I _apologise_."

"Whatever for?"

She bared her teeth, and cocked a hip to the side. People were blatantly staring at them now and John was barely hiding a grin. "I'm sorry for insinuating that you and John's relationship is wrong."

"I wouldn't say you just insinuated that."

"I'm sorry for **saying** that then."

"What about John, surely you should apologise to him too."

She sighed and looked to the doctor who was wearing his best innocent smile, glinting eyes giving away his pleasure. "I'm sorry. I was wrong."

John smiled and looked to Sherlock who was beaming and licking his lips. He was enjoying this. (The doctors stare told him that it was probably enough now, even though he really really wanted to keep going.)

"Apology accepted. Thank you."

She rolled her eyes again and tried to push past the investigators grouped at the door, they were laughing and smiling at each other and she stamped outside leaving Sherlock alone with Lestrade and John.

"That went well."

Lestrade was chuckling but his grin faded when he looked at Sherlock. He looked to John and leant in a little closer to him whispering conspiratorially. "So, you going to tell me what's up with him? He looks like crap."

John sighed. He had better not..."He hasn't been sleeping."

Bastard. Sherlock glared, how dare he betray him like this. Lestrade raised both his eyebrows and opened his mouth, something dawning in his eyes but the detective beat him to it, not even trying to keep the scorn from his voice.

"No, I am not back on the drugs."

Lestrade scoffed and Sherlock sniffed, looking away. "Do you want hear what I have deduced or are we going to stand here talking about meaningless drivel?"

The inspector put his hands on his hip and let out a short breath through his nose; John just sighed and leant against the wall. "Alright, come on."

Sherlock smirked and clapped his hands together striding away safe in knowledge he would be followed and cleared a path for. It was good to always be right. (And he _always_ was. More or less.)

"They came looking for him, probably some sort of warning. That is where he lost the blood, slow drips means less violent wound, probably a cut to the neck or arm. He left that night."

Sherlock gestured to the blood puddle and the rug over it.

"He took his time planning his escape, making sure he was well prepared."

"What? No! He left his phone; his clothes are still in the closet...he left in a hurry."

(Really, he despaired.) "No. Wrong as always."

Lestrade sighed and John frowned stepping next to him to peer around the room. "Seems perfectly accurate to me Sherlock."

The detective pursed his lips. "As always I am reminded who has the brain in this relationship, _no_. He planned it that way, to make it look like he had left quickly like he would be unprepared, running without a plan. The mob are good at this, they know how panicking people react and as such would be looking in the wrong places." John raised an eyebrow but (Surprisingly.) didn't comment on the brain comment or interrupt his flow. Good boy.

"Here, he covered the blood with the rug, why? Because he needed it to make it look like he was frantic, hiding the evidence poorly would indicate this. Again, phone left behind but look at it, this model must be three years old at least."

"So what?"

Really. Lestrade could be perfectly dense.

"Look at the computer."

John glanced away and back, that dawning admiration growing in his eyes. He smirked.

"It's new. Very new."

"Yes and a man who can update his computer and does update his computer isn't likely to still be using a three year old phone. So, he planted it along with the clothes. They are large, brightly coloured or formal therefore useless to him."

Sherlock whirled past the men and up the stairs to fling the wardrobe wide open, yanking and pulling at the clothes. "Look, these are at least three sizes too big for him."

"How can you know that?"

"Pictures. There was a large picture of the company at their Christmas party in the lobby of his office. He was the only one stood off to the side, alone. The receptionist herself told us he had no friends."

John crossed his arms, and titled his head. A smile Sherlock know only too well spread over his face. (He was reminded of how attractive he found it when John attempted to deduce things, and he thought perhaps John liked it too. The thought only distracted him for a moment or two.)

"He was much too thin to be able to put this much weight on in time. Hence not his usual clothes. Receipt for a new suitcase here under the bed." He dropped to his hands, chest brushing the floor, and reached out pulling the paper from the dark corner and waving it at the inspector. A man with a plastic bag appeared and took it from him, Sherlock thankful he had remembered to wear gloves on his way in.

"So they would think he hadn't even taken one." John was nodding and looking up at the battered brown case on top of the wardrobe. "_Brilliant_."

Sherlock smirked and ran a hand through his hair."This Nico is just..."

Sherlock glared. **What.** _Nico_?

John glanced to him and balked. "I mean you are too, obviously..."

Lestrade laughed and shook his head patting John on the shoulder s they both stared at his fuming partner. Arms crossed Sherlock glared out of the window. How _dare_ he.

"I think it's better if you don't say anything..."

John laughed again and walked forwards, touching the detective on the elbow. "Hey, want to tell us the rest?"

Sherlock sighed and glanced sideways. He couldn't say no, not when John looked like this, not when the thrill of his deductions was still running through his veins. "Fine."

"Thank you."

"They did come looking for him again."

He trotted out of the door and back down the stairs through to the kitchen, still shocked and angry(If John was so impressed by this Nico character why didn't he marry **him** instead. Stupid Nico.).

"Came through the back door, lock was picked and they searched but they couldn't find him or his hiding place."

"What, you mean he was here when they came back?"

"No. But it's pretty obvious where he is, remember that this man is intelligent. Fiercely intelligent." There was a beat of silence when nobody said anything. Sherlock rolled his eyes. (This was getting ridiculous.)

"It has **snowed**." Still nothing. John gave him a bewildered look and he groaned rubbing a hand over his face. "He is an architect, an architect working on a mobsters new home..."

Lestrade licked his lips and put his hands on his hips. Yet again. Nothing. Really, how did they ever cope. "It has snowed; therefore building work will have stopped. The site will be empty under the snow melts. Where is the best place to hide John?"

"In plain sight. You really think he is there?"

"Yes. It is the smart thing to do, what I would do."

John nodded and looked up to Lestrade. "There, he has found Nico. Now we are going home and he is going to sleep."

The inspector looked at Sherlock for a long moment and then down at John. "You do realise we don't know where the building site is?"

"Well...it must be in the papers here somewhere." John patted him on the shoulder and grabbed Sherlocks hand, yanking him out of the room and back through the house. (Not that he minded. A fierce headache had developed in the last minute and having finished his deductions his adrenaline wore off very quickly indeed. Unusual and irritating.)

The ride back to Baker Street was quiet that is until John started laughing, looking at Sherlock and laughing again.

"What?"

The detective took a elegant hand away from his face and hit his lover with a intense stare, John giggled weakly and shook his head. "Only with you would I get into a situation where you didn't even know how to propose to someone. Only with you I wouldn't even have been given a choice."

"What do you mean?"

"You jumped out of a car and** told** me we were getting married."

"You said yes anyway, why does it matter?"

John laughed and shook his head. Sherlock sniffed and turned to the window, hand back over his brow to block the flickering lights from his tired dry eyes. Sometimes he feared for Johns sanity.

As soon as they got in John frogmarched him up the stairs and to their room (_Their_. Never got old.) stripping him with a patient expression on his face. He pulled Sherlocks coat, sock and shoes off and ordered him to get into bed. "Go to sleep."

Sherlock blinked. "Aren't you getting in?"

"No I'm staying here to make sure you do actually go to sleep."

He pouted. "John. You can do that from the bed."

The doctor finally cracked a smile but hid it quickly. "**Fine**."

He stripped himself of his shirt, shoes and socks and slipped in the other side wearing just his undershirt and the jeans. Sherlock waited for him to settle for a moment before wrapping himself around the doctor, clinging to his shoulder as he buried his face in his neck. Taking a deep breath Sherlock wriggled about, trying to cover as much of John as possible. The doctors' hand came around to hold his back and he chuckled underneath the weight of his lover.

"Comfortable?"

"You want me to sleep don't you? This helps."

John laughed and Sherlock grinned into his skin, he smelt like the faint aroma of aftershave, clean cotton and his familiar citrus scent, warm arms holding him gently and almost to spite himself his eyes dropped closed and he was asleep in a moment.

He knew it was a dream. He had seen this place many times before, the trees towering above him, stark black against the dark blue of the night sky. Tiny light of the stars flickered above him and Sherlocks tumbled forwards, trotting through the woods, a familiar path and he knew that when he reached the end of this path he would find him.

But he had no choice and the cold dread slicked down his spine and pooled in his stomach slowly closing around his heart and lungs until he was panting, white plumes enfolding in the cold air. He pulled his coat around himself. Nobody would be worried about him; they knew that even at only 6 years old Sherlock was the most terrifying thing in these woods. He licked his frozen lips, the wind freezing his skin, his cheeks were numb and his eyes watered.

But he carried on and now as he turned into the glade the pain in his chest grew and it was so still here, so silent. Not a rustle of leaves in the wind, not the faint call of a nocturnal predator to accompany him as he wandered over to the body. It looked different this time but he couldn't put his finger on why.

His arms were twisted unnaturally, thrown over his hip as his legs splayed out. He was on his side; back facing the small boy, head turned away and Sherlock froze because he knew now why this was different. His stomach plummeted and he wanted to vomit, retching dryly but when he stood back and looked down again it was still him, it was still John lying there.

His beautiful eyes cold, dead, the blood that trickled from his ear was luminous red, as was the large stains on his front, a knife glinted nearby and Sherlock dropped to his knee pulling the body over so John was lying on his back. Eyes staring up at the twinkling sky, reflected back as though he were alive again.

A tear tracked its way down his cheek and he heard a soft, disappointed sigh above him. Sherlock looked up. Mummy was stood hands on hips, her eyes black and shadowed and she shook her head, the faces of his family, of Jeremy or the teachers that had been so impressed with his thirst for knowledge all staring at him. So disappointed, so _accusing_.

Sherlock tried to stand but his legs wouldn't move and he cried harder, lifting his hands. They glistened and the metallic tang of the blood on his sticky digits filled his nose, he choked, hiccupping and sobbing.

"What happened?"

Sherlock looked down at John and back up. "I don't know, I don't...I don't know."

"Where have you been?"

They were speaking in unison, monotone and blank but Sherlock crouched and whimpered. He couldn't remember a thing. Not a moment and he stared down at the body. Had he done this? Had he killed John?

He sobbed and tried to wipe his hands on the leaves around them shaking his head. "No no no no..."

"Yes. You did it, you killed him, the blood is on your hands."

"Nonononononono."

He wept and scrambled to his feet reaching down and trying to pull the body up but he was too weak and the body too leaden, limbs flopping comically as his blood made weak small hands slippery. He could only pull ineffectively at his blood soaked clothes, his skin was smeared with the stains of it and he retched again, weeping and screaming that he hadn't done it, it wasn't him it wasn't his fault no no no _no-_

"**Sherlock**!"

The detective jolted awake and snapped his hands around John's arms, eyes wide. The doctor took a deep breath locking eyes with him and Sherlock closed his mouth. Well this was embarrassing. (He had never told anybody about this particular nightmare and somehow he thought telling John that he had dreamt of his dead body that _he_ had killed him no less, would probably be a bad idea.)

"You okay?"

His heart was pounding his chest but Johns hands were on his cheeks and his neck, smoothing over his skin and he was taking exaggerated long deep breaths like it would help Sherlock. He found himself imitating the man, his own breathing slowing, and wondered vaguely if he had been taught that in combat training.

"Yes."

"You going to talk about it?"

"No.

"You really should. It doesn't help to keep things cooped up Sherlock."

"I don't want to."

"Sher-"

"No."

The doctor sighed and ran a hand through the detective's hair. He glanced sideways at the clock and licked his lips. He had slept for almost three hours. "Can I get up now?"

"No. You don't have to sleep but I want you to rest at least."

Sherlock nodded and wriggle down a little, laying his head back on the pillow as John smoothed his hand over his stomach in soothing circles. "Have you always had nightmares?"

(He had just told him he didn't want to talk about it dammit. But his hand was right there and his breath was across Sherlocks cheekbones and he found he couldn't refuse.) Johns' voice was low and in the dim light of dawn Sherlock could see just the faint outline of his features.

He looked concerned and slightly fearful like Sherlock was going to start screaming at any second. "I did as a child. But not so much since then."

"Oh."

"What about you?"

"Never did have nightmares, not until...until..."

Johns hand had stopped moving and his fingers clenched a little against his skin. Sherlock shuffled sideways and John leant his face against the taller mans shoulder.

"Until you got back from Afghanistan."

"Yes." For some reason Sherlock felt better. (Perhaps the shared experience of these dreams was comforting. Perhaps he was not going mad, perhaps it was _normal_.)

"Can we get up?"

John sighed and wrapped his hands around his arm, anchoring him to the bed and doctor. "**No**."

He finally released him mid-morning and Sherlock peeled himself from the bed. He had been what Mrs. Hudson would call 'dozing' for hours and felt oddly more rested for it, his limbs less achy his mind clearer and he rushed about the flat flinging his arms around and dictating what they already knew to John.

Then it hit him, what to do next, he had to visit Jack.

"John! We are going out!"

The doctor sighed and got to his feet retrieving the red sweater from the abyss and pulling it over his head. Sherlock pouted. He wanted that.

"Jo-"

"No."

"You are a cruel man."

The doctor laughed and they rushed downstairs (Well, Sherlock rushed. John just walked after his trial of destruction.) and out into the street. The cabbie raised an eyebrow looking at both of them oddly when he told him the address but relented and John looked to him complacently.

"Where are we going?"

"To Jacks."

"Who is Jack?"

"It's a pub John."

"Oh."

They pulled up outside and the doctor gave him a strange look but got out anyway and stamped his feet on the frozen ground. "Jesus, it's freezing."

He just smirked and rushed past him into the muggy warmth of the pub. Jack wasn't at the bar this time and Sherlock looked around for him, John joining his lover a second later panting slightly and tugging at his clothes. Mere moments inside enough to drench them both in perspiration. (Some not their own.)

"So who are we here to see?"

Suddenly a large hand clapped down on the doctors shoulder and he let out a shocked grunt. Sherlock grinned and Jack circled them, walking behind the bar to pour himself a pint. "Mister Holmes."

"Jack."

John raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. "This is John, my ..."

"Partner. John Watson."

"Tell me, you were in the army right?"

"Yeah."

"Can spot a fellow soldier a mile off."

John laughed and Jack leant on the bar downing his drink in almost on gulp. "So what do two upstanding men like yourselves need from a old father?"

"Just wondering if you knew where the site of Noah's new house is."

Jack licked his lips glancing around, his cheerful expression deepened somewhat and he leant very close to Sherlocks face. "You don't want to mess with them Sherlock. Noah is a powerful guy."

"I'm not interested in messing with anybody."

Jacks snorted but stepped back "Two beers is it?"

He poured two pints and slipped them across the bar. "I'll just get you a receipt."

He proceeded to wander down the bar and ignore them. John gripped his drink and frowned. "What?"

"Sh."

Jack retuned a mere minute later and slipped a receipt across the bar, Sherlock slipping him three twenties in return. "Night, father."

"Bless you gentlemen."

He was careful to hold onto the receipt until they were safely back in the taxi and on their way back to Baker Street. It was an address out of town, and so he leant forwards tapping the driver on the shoulder.

"Actually I want to go here."

He handed the receipt over and the driver shrugged. "Alright mate."

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, pulling his wallet open. "Hope you brought cash."

The site was empty when they arrived, a thick blanket of snow covering tarpaulin that poked through in flashes of black and blue. He held up a hand and asked the cabbie to wait, this wouldn't take long. The bare framework of the house was standing, the skeleton of what was to come and Sherlock sniffed in the bitterly cold air as they slipped out of the door. It helped to waken his mind somewhat and he stepped aside to let John crunch onto the frozen path.

Somewhere in the distance were several porta-cabins, dotted and stacked by a large clump of trees, the faint figure of a man in a long dark coat slipped out of the door and down the wooden steps, making its way across the site towards the two men. John patted him on the arm and Sherlock nodded his head instantly putting on a fake smile.

"Hello."

The man smiled. (Or didn't, it was a strange expression Sherlock really didn't understand.)

"Gentlemen. How can I help you?"

"Um...we were just wondering if...well...um...we saw this house from the motorway and we thought...well." He fumbled with his hands, adopting a flustered embarrassed tone. John ducked his head as if too scared or too shy to look up. He was very good at it. Remarkable. (Not to mention oddly...endearing.)

"It just looked so bally lovely, I mean. Who...who is...what is..."

"Are you asking me who designed this building?"

"Oh yes, I would love if you could tell us."

"I am sorry but I don't know."

He spoke in a strange soft tone, and held his hands together in front of himself like a matronly teacher, tilting his head with that strange half smile. He also was blatantly lying.

"Um, oh really? Oh well. I'm sorry for the trouble."

"No no, no trouble at all."

Sherlock nodded his head and put a hand on Johns shoulder, an almost sad expression on his face and together they began to turn away. The man spoke again "If you are interested in houses of this style I am sure these architects would be interested in helping you out."

He slipped a hand into his breast pocket and passed a note over to the detective just as a gunshot rang out. John instantly dropped to his knees, but Sherlock wasn't so lucky and pain exploded in his arm. The man had also dropped instantly. (Clearly used to gunshot, he didn't even flinch. He did however act surprised, and he was very good at it...wait what did that mean?)

Sherlock let out an astonished grunt and slipped on the ice, landing flat on his back. John leant over him and Sherlock tried to force him to behave as he had before, no to give the game away.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Are you okay Brian?"

Well. He was damn impressive; the glint in his eyes meaning that despite his worry John didn't think whatever had happened was life threatening. (He wondered when such discussion had ceased to become verbal. His mind instantly recalled the night of the bomb in the swimming pool. Two minds in perfect synch for the first time.)

"Ah yes, just slipped I think."

John hulked weakly and helped him to his feet, careful to hide the torn patch of his coat and the dark stain now blooming in the fabric. (He was glad he hadn't worn his great coat, having set fire to the cuffs Mrs. Hudson had taken it to a friend of hers for repair. He doubted that even a friend of their inimitable landlady could repair this.)

"Oh ohh my back."

"Oh dear. We should be off. "

The man was watching all this with a odd expression on his face, slightly more surprised than before but still not losing that strange half smile. It was unsettling.

"Good...goodbye sir." Sherlock waved a hand weakly and put the other to his back as if that was why he was in pain as they half limped their way back to the cab.

Sitting low in the seat he felt drained but he smirked and John leant over him wincing at his arm and pulling bandages from seemingly nowhere to tie a bandage to his arm. "There that should hold it until we can get back."

He felt more drained than ever, half sitting half lying here in the deep seats of the cab, leant against his lover and with a weak chuckle he patted the doctor down with his one remaining arm.

"What _are_ you doing?"

"Trying to find where you could've kept that."

John laughed. "Yes well, being around you calls for some preparation."

Sherlock laughed quietly too, ignoring the tendrils of pain that flickered up and down his arm.

Once back at the flat John helped him ease out of the car and the world tipped to the side for a moment, his knees wobbling as he stepped out. John held him tightly and together they hobbled into the hallway and up the stairs. He was pushed down onto the sofa and the coat was slipped gently off his shoulder, his shirt was ruined and blood had seeped into most of the arm and the fabric behind. He pouted and John sighed in response, unbuttoning the expensive fabric and throwing it over to the char.

"I liked that shirt."

The doctor shook his head. "Well I am very sorry."

He surveyed the detective's bare chest and clicked on a lamp he had dragged over, it was on a high stand and had several springs to allow the exact positioning he desired. John let out breath through his teeth and squirted some clear liquid into the wound, dabbing at it with cotton wool, it stung and Sherlocks lips twitched.

(He really really liked that shirt and was in pain and he could feel petulant anger bubbling under his skin. Irritation but he fought it back. For once.)

"Looks like a graze to me; it's quite deep I might need to stitch it up."

Sherlock just nodded whatever John wanted. "A bullet."

"Yes most likely hunters in those woods. They know it's illegal but who is going to check?"

Sherlock just nodded vaguely. Hunters. Yes...unless of course it wasn't hunters and **AH**!

He turned his head sharply and John shrugged sympathetically. "Sorry." Butcher. Two neat stitches later and he was hunched over on the sofa, eyes drooping as he leant his head against the doctors stomach, a hand sliding into the hair at the base of his neck.

"So, did you get anything from that? Besides the flesh wound."

Sherlock sighed and blinked heavily. "I think I know where Nico is."

"Oh?"

"You are telling me you didn't see it?"

"No how could I? I was staring at the floor." The doctor sounded irritated but it was half-hearted and Sherlock smirked.

"Behind the porta-cabins, there was a single trial of footprints heading into the forest."

"How could you see that?"

"I was looking for them. We should go and have a look in those woods."

"Tomorrow."

Sherlock sighed. He wouldn't have been able to move if he wanted to.

An hour later and he was lain backwards on the sofa, John cradled into his side. He was wearing a fresh white shirt and the doctor shuffled slightly, reaching up above his own head to turn the page of Sherlocks book (A large encyclopaedia of the trees of America. The spruce.) so he wouldn't have to remove the arm that curled around him, or the hand that the doctor was tracing his fingers over.

He held Sherlocks hand up gently following the line of his palm with a fingertip, his other hand wrapped around the back, fingers interlinked with his. It was...nice and Sherlock let his head drop back against the arm, wincing at his stiff limbs and the dry press in his skull that constantly reminded him of his sleep deprivation. But he felt calm, he felt comfortable.

Perhaps now if he went to bed he would be able to sleep without fear.

Suddenly the doctor's phone rang and he sighed pressing a soft kiss to his lovers palm before rolling off the sofa and trotting across the room. He picked up the call. (Bastard. He should've merely silenced the irritation and returned to the sofa.) Harry, judging by his stance.

"Oh hello."

Sherlock sighed and sat up, rubbing his hands over his face before getting shakily to his feet. He felt light headed and took a step. A mistake it seemed because everything went black and in the blink of his eye he was laid crumpled on the floor and John was leant over him, phone lying forgotten on the floor.

"Hey hey, Sherlock come on. Wake up."

"John..."

"Jesus. This sleep thing is worse than I thought. Come on."

He was pulled up onto Johns' shoulders and barely helped at all as he was dragged up the stairs to the bedroom, John stripping him of his trousers and shirt before pushing him into the bed, quilt tugged up and tucked under his chin.

"I will be right back oaky? Just...just try and sleep I promise I will be here when you wake up."

Sherlock didn't have the energy to nod so he simply let his leaden eyes slide shut.

That music sounded familiar, he couldn't place it and the lights here were blinding. He blinked rapidly to try and clear his vision and suddenly he knew exactly where he was. He glanced to the pews; Mummy and Harry were side by side, matching grins on their faces, his family behind them.

Perhaps this was not to be a bad dream after all. The music grew even louder now and Sherlock turned back to the altar, Mycroft's smug grin only slightly less smug now, Lestrade beside him chuckling under his breath, a smile broke out on his face and the sound of the doors behind him made the detective turn back, something catching his eyes through the brightly coloured glass of the window.

He quickly stepped out of sight but Sherlock knew that face, those twinkling eyes and he froze but John was walking down the aisle towards him, beaming from ear to ear and it was too late to say anything, he _couldn't_ say anything before the door to his left burst open and there was the crack of gunshot and John was crumpling to the floor, red spewing from his stomach as he gasped for breath, barely calling out in pain.

Sherlock rushed towards him, dropping to his knees to pull the doctors limp body up onto his chest but there were footsteps behind him and he turned and he was struck across the back of the head, the world going black.

He was lying down, it was warm and for a moment he just let himself sink into the soft surface. He could sense something moving to his right and it crept closer to him, a creak of a floorboard and he leapt up grabbing the figure and rolling over so he was straddling them, knife pulled from under his pillow (A necessary precaution.) and held to the neck of his attacker.

"What the_ hell_ are you doing?"

John blinked up at him, very much alive and very very angry. Sherlock took the knife away but didn't move off his lover's hips, instead sitting back on his thighs."You shouldn't sneak up on me."

"I didn't sneak up on you! I was checking to see if you were alright."

"I am fine."

"Really? Because you were..._whimpering_."

Sherlock screwed up his face and looked away from the softly lit eyes of the man below him. He wriggled a little, the cold air from the windows was making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, his hips moved against the doctors and hands gripped his thighs stopping him.

For a moment.

"Stop that."

"This isn't a dream."(It didn't hurt to be sure. After all, any minute a gunman or bomber or fire or anything could explode into the close air here.)

"No it isn't. Stop avoiding this discussion."

Sherlock rolled his hips again, harder this time and John actually bit down on his lip, fingers digging into the flesh of Sherlocks legs. He grinned running a hand through his hair, his skin smelt of dried sweat, of fear. He frowned for a second before looking back down. The doctor was patient with him, licking his lips and rubbing tiny circles in the fabric of his pants.

"I said stop it. You keep on like that and you can't stay there, I will drop you to the floor."

Sherlock grinned raising an eyebrow...that sounded _fun_. "And you can stop making that face, I don't mean in the fun way, I mean in the 'I could seriously hurt you' way."

Well, that was no fun. He didn't roll his hips this time; he put his hands on John's chest instead, feeling the rhythmic beat of his heart and the heat of his skin. He leant down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, it was slightly warmer here and he paused in the heat coming from his lovers body, kisses peppering his jaw and neck.

"Only with you can checking to see if my partner is awake ends with him trying to kill me."

"I'm not the one trying to kill you."

There was a long silence and the doctor put a hand on his chest, pushing him back up so he was sitting straight. "_What?"_

(Oh shit. Well, no time like the present.) "Someone is trying to kill us?"

He was suddenly launched sideways on to the bed and John was on his feet, pacing back and forth frantically, fingers dug into his hair.

"John?"

The doctor turned and stared at him, eyes wide. He looked furious. "WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY ANYTHING!"

"I didn't want to worry you." (Also, ouch. He was going to mention he didn't need to shout but the doctor was tugging at his hair and shaking his head. Perhaps another time.)

"Didn't want to-"

John let out a guttural groan and flung himself on the bed. Sherlock crawled over to him and arranged himself next to the doctor, bare feet just touching his lovers, thigh a hairs breadth away.

"Who?"

He sighed and John looked at him, worry in his eyes. God dammit this is what he was trying to avoid.

"I'm not sure. But..." He froze. Of course! That was what had struck him back at the building site.

"But?"

"The mob John. The mob is trying to kill us."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you everyone, the reviews are amazing. I hope I got the viewpoint/time differentia alright. Please review and tell me if you think I did! Or if you have anything to say at all! Or anything really (: (Ninja edit. Just realised my breakers don't show up in this format. Changed.)**

He tapped his fingers against his thigh as he waited, the strong aroma of coffee waking him a little as did the thrill of the forbidden. After all he was still under a prohibition. (He had crept from their bed that morning careful, quiet. He didn't wake the doctor thankfully and the idea of returning to what had been a favourite haunt of his to get a delicious cup of elixir had been too tempting to pass up.)

He had been sorely disappointed when he turned the corner to find that 'Georges' had shut down to be replaced by a Starbucks. Only deterring him for a brief second he still crossed the road and trotted into the shop, lining up behind busy men in suits who tutted and tapped their watches and looked to him, scoffing as though he was supposed to share their lack of patience. When he finally reached the front of the queue he tried to smile at the woman.

"One cup of coffee please."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"

He floundered, what was her problem?

"One coffee?"

Thankfully the woman took pity on him and smirked, shaking her head and leaning a little over the counter. "That's an Americano then..."

"Uh...yes. Absolutely."

"What size?"

"Size?"

"Tall, grande or venti."

Sherlock frowned and she shook her head again laughing. The man behind him sighed and coughed to indicate his anger. Sherlock stepped back a little knocking him and the man shuffled back a bit glaring at him.

"Small medium or large sir."

"Medium..."

"Okay hang on." She made his drink and pushed it across the counter towards him. Sherlock picked it up and beamed at her turning to leave. "Uh sir!"

He turned back. "Yes?"

"You haven't paid..."

"Oh..." (His drinks at Georges had been free. He had forgotten that this wasn't the same place.) He turned back embarrassed and handed over a five pound note, hoping it was enough. After all he had no gage; John always bought everything for him. The woman smiled and gave him his change and he turned to leave, licking his lips in anticipation. The men in suits watched him with raised eyebrows but he ignored them, striding out into the bitterly cold air. Snow was beginning to fall and the detective pulled his coat tighter around himself, lifting the paper cup up to take a sip.

"You are not allowed coffee."

Sherlocks smile dropped and he stared stonily ahead, lowering the cup but continuing to walk without looking towards the voice. Mycroft's car simply sped up a little so the older man was able to keep staring out of the window at his younger brother.

"Get in the car."

The door flew open in front of him and Sherlock sighed sliding into the seat next to Mycroft. The cup was taken from his hands and disappeared up front, probably to be drunk by Mycroft's driver.

Bastard.

"There, good."

"What do you want Mycroft?"

"Well, the fact that the mob is after you is a concern of mine. Not to mention I have been informed that you haven't been sleeping. I can book you an appointment with a highly regarded psychiatrist..."

"I don't need a psychiatrist Mycroft. I am fine, John is fine. We are _fine_."

"Oh I know that..."

Mycroft smirked smugly and Sherlock sniffed. His brother was of course still under the impression Sherlock had no idea about the engagement, and he felt very superior about it too it seemed. Well he couldn't have that.

"I expect that you are referring to our engagement."

Mycroft's smirk slipped a little but he nodded his head and looked away from his brother, a more genuine (Shudder.) smile on his face this time. "Ah, so he has already asked you."

"No."

"Surely _you_ didn't ask _him_?"

"No actually. I told him we are getting married."

Mycroft was silent for a second before laughing, an odd noise that gargled at the back of his throat. "You **told** him, how did Doctor Watson take that?"

"He wasn't happy. He told me he had derived some sort of plan and agreed to say no for the time being so he could ask me himself."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow making a soft noise in the back of his throat and Sherlock turned to look at his brother. That look was back in his eyes, marred by a hazy sort of surprise. "Oh, I see. "

Sherlock scowled. "This is all your fault really."

"It is?"

"Yes. Apparently it is your job as my elder brother to inform of correct protocol in these things. A task you have failed marvellously at."

"Well if you will excuse me I simply did not believe it would or indeed could happen. It would've been a lesson wasted."

(Well that was rather offensive. Bloody Mycroft, he had a point though.) "Yes well. Regardless, it is your fault."

"I suppose it is."

He was looking at him in that funny way again and Sherlock looked out of the window, glaring as the buildings scrolled past him. He hated talking about things like this with Mycroft (Well, with anybody but John really.) and he was still angry about losing his coffee. They pulled up outside Baker Street, it was still early and the snow on the pavement was still fresh, still pristine bar a single set of footsteps that led away from the door of 221. It took him a moment to remember that they were his and Sherlock sighed rubbing a hand over his forehead. He really needed to sleep.

"Here."

A card was thrust under his nose and Sherlock simply ignored it, sliding out of the car and onto the pavement, not looking back. He didn't need a bloody psychiatrist.

...

Creeping back into the bed proved more difficult than leaving it and he undressed in silence, trying to warm his hands before his cold touch could wake the doctor. It was for naught it seemed because as he carefully arranged himself around the doctors back a voice piped up.

"Where have you been?"

Sherlock sighed, perhaps he could distract him. The detective sat up on his elbow and John rolled over so he was laid on his back, blinking sleepily up at his lover. Sherlock smirked and bent down pressing a soft insistent kiss to John's lips; the doctor chuckled into his mouth but pulled back when he tried to deepen the kiss.

"I have morning breath and you are trying to distract me. What is it?"

Dammit. (Although it _had_ been tactical, he really wanted to keep kissing John now, simply because he tasted amazing and the doctor's hand was on his chest. Who could blame him. Really.)

John licked his lips and frowned. "Did you get coffee?"

He looked a little angry and Sherlock rolled backwards, the doctor sitting up glaring down at him. "No I didn't. Mycroft stole it."

"Oh, good."

John seemed to have calmed down since the night before; hours spent pacing back and forth bemoaning that they couldn't stay safe for more than a day at a time. Eventually his continued movement had begun to give Sherlock a headache so he had all but tackled the man to the bed and demanded he stay there, baiting him with promises that he would sleep, could _only_ sleep when John was there.

The doctor relented and had fallen asleep rather quickly, leaving Sherlock to spend the night counting heartbeats and ignoring the dry ache of his eyes, the pulsing in his skull and the tightness of his limbs. Back here in bed, the warmth of John's body and the added drag of his conversation with Mycroft had somehow lulled his mind into a stupor. Enough to allow his eyes to slide shut and he felt himself beginning to fall into the arms of Morpheus, a single thought in his head before he was gone.

Please, do not let me dream.

This one was different from the others. It appeared only as a mirage of images that flashed in front of his eyes, John on the table, Sherlock unable to reach him, Mrs. Hudson crying, faster and faster until something caught his eyes and his dream seemed to pause.

It was a memory, an image that had haunted him for mere minutes before now revolved around him again and again. That foot, dropping below the edge of the car door. A shoe, the bottom three inches of a suited leg and the thinnest strip of sock.

It terrified him, it resonated with him and yet he had no idea why. There was something almost damning about it, an omen of evil, of fatality. He was reminded of the Cŵn Annwn, the hell hounds of Welsh folklore whose howls were said to signify death. He sucked in a breath and he was suddenly awake, the images gone but not forgotten, hands clasped in the sweaty sheets that wound around his legs and suffocated his chest. He fought with them in his shock and panic, kicking the quilt clear off the bed. He shook his head and rolled sideways trying to calm the pounding of his heart to find he was alone.

John was gone.

He sighed reaching out to place a hand where the doctor had been, the sheets were cold. He had gotten up hours ago then. The detective scowled at the pillow, how dare he leave him like that. His head pounded and he took a breath, his throat tickling and lungs tightening. He wheezed and began a coughing fit. Blast. Rolling back towards the window he peered out at the falling snow and cursed it. He felt too hot, ice cold sweat dripping down his brow. With a shaky hand he pushed himself up to walk to the window, resting his fevered brow to the frozen glass. It was soothing and he stood like that until he felt a little better.

After a few minutes he peeled himself from this comfort to turn around and locate some clothes, finding his suits hung in John's wardrobe. (It still made him smile.) He considered changing into a dark grey trouser and black shirt combo, but his pyjamas clung to him like a second skin and he decided to leave it. After all he had no idea if when he went downstairs he would be spending the day holed up in the flat with Mycroft security details barging in and out because John called him. Better not to bother just yet, save raising his aching arms.

He turned away, wrapping his arms around himself to tread downstairs. Forcing himself to resist the urge to cough, John didn't need to know about some silly little cold. The doctor was not there when he arrived so he headed directly for his sofa, slumping back to let the cool leather seep into his clothes.

"What's wrong with you?"

John was stood in the doorway, bags in hand. Clearly just back from the supermarket. His hair was still dusted with snow, feet clumped with it and his chin was obscured by (Sherlocks.) a large scarf, hands wrapped in leather gloves. (Also Sherlocks.) He was frowning, trotting into the kitchen and putting the shopping away methodically, the sounds of cupboard doors and the slamming down of tins of food resonated with a weak pulse of pain every moment.

Sherlock cracked open an eye to watch him, a cold clammy hand pressed backwards against his forehead in an effort to dull the ache. "Did you buy more Vaseline?"

John snorted. "God knows what you want that for."

Sherlock sighed. Well, wasn't it obvious? "It is an extremely useful commodity John, after all it is a universal lubric-"

He was interrupted by a shocking warm hand against his cheek. "Yes yes alright. Enough about the bloody Vaseline." He opened his eyes to peer up at his lover, John was frowning but no other emotion was shown on his face. (How irritating.)

"Are you still not sleeping?"

Ah, a way out. He nodded; curls bouncing as he basically rubbed his cheek against the slightly rough palm of the doctor. "Hmmm, wait a minute..."

John suddenly dropped to his knees and leant forwards, pressing his ear up to Sherlock's chest. He pulled back and looked up sternly, his eye betraying him with a tone that if vocalised would no doubt be the voice.

"You are sick again aren't you?"

It wasn't a question. John groaned and put both his hands on Sherlock's knees, holding himself there for a moment, taking a deep breath, before getting to his feet. "Really, your immune system is terrible. Although, I guess it doesn't help that you refuse to eat so much as a sandwich every couple of days."

Sherlock had stopped listening, pressing his face into John's stomach instead, the doctor's hands sliding up the back of his neck to cling to the hairs on the crown of his head. He reached up blindly hands findings John's hip and he pulled him forwards, fingers sliding over the soft fabric of his sweater as the detective inhaled lemon scented heaven, oddly soothing to his rasping throat.

They stayed like that for a few minutes before John tugged on his hair with his hand so Sherlock would look at him and he pressed his lips together, staring down at his lover in contemplation for moment. The detective just blinked up at him, hands on John's hips, thumbs skimming just under his waistband, smoothing over the hot silky skin there. The doctor sighed and leant down pressing a soft kiss to Sherlocks lips, biting gently as he pulled away.

"I wish I could do something about these nightmares..."

"It is no concern of yours."

"Of course it bloody is. I know you have spent quite a while being an island Sherlock but you have to realise that if something hurts you then it hurts me too."

He just leant back a little into the hand still cradling his head trying not to show the ache in his limbs or the pain in his chest. He definitely didn't want to hurt John.

After a moment John removed his hand and ran it through his own hair, shaking his head and turning back to the kitchen. "Go for a shower, you look terrible."

Sherlock looked down at his hands, it didn't matter to him what he looked like. (In fact the only part of his appearance he cared at all for were his suits. But that wasn't vanity, it was practical. Only well tailored suits allowed him the full range of motion he required for his work. It was logical really.)

"And before you say I know you don't care but I'd rather you didn't go around looking like you've been dragged backwards through a hedge."

He opened his mouth to argue but John was still talking, not even breathing to allow his lover room to speak.

"Besides it might help you chest a little."

He just crossed his arms, if he wasn't going to be allowed to argue than he was just going to stay there. John couldn't force him to-

"Sherlock, shower."

The voice. He was up and out of the room in a moment.

...

When he returned downstairs (In the black shirt and grey suit combo. His shower had helped somewhat and he found it less agonizing than previously presumed to dress himself. Although, he was not going to tell John that.) the doctor was wearing his coat, shoes and was standing by the window staring out.

"Going somewhere?"

John turned to him and smiled crookedly. "Well, the mob **is** after us. Just thought that we should finish the case as soon as possible..."

"Now?"

His head ached and his legs were leaden but dammit if his heart rate didn't flutter at the prospect of some actual work. (Not to mention that crooked smile.)

"I thought you'd want to sort it out yourself, might make you feel better, after all how dangerous can finding this guy really be?"

Somehow this had something to do with the nightmares. It was obvious by John's expression and the forced casual smile he was giving him. (He decided not to mention the 'how dangerous' comment at all. John really didn't need to know that.)

"Okay."

...

John was watching him carefully, that was obvious but Sherlock didn't mention it. The doctor was clearly planning something and as much as he really (Really.) wanted to know what it was he got the sense that it was best not to ask. He reached out a hand and the doctor on instinct put his mobile in it with a quick smile which Sherlock returned. It was nice and Sherlock grinned when he caught the cabbie's eyebrows raising in the rear view mirror, surprised at the lack of vocal communication no doubt.

He flicked through his phonebook and pressed call holding the phone up to his ear. "Irene."

"Sherlock? Oh wonderful, you have found him then?"

"I have no intention of turning him over to you or your employers."

She sighed and he could hear the disappointment in her voice. "Sherlock, they are dangerous people and I-"

The sound of a car door, a spoon falling into a coffee house mug. A impressed intake of breath.

"Ah I see commander Becker has arrived. You are welcome."

He hung up just as the smooth tones of the commander echoed through along with her flirty giggle. "Ms Adler? This way."

Sherlock smirked at his phone and sent a quick text.

"You are telling Lestrade where he is?"

"I am telling him where to meet us. Can't have him turning up with a platoon of police officers can we."

"Uh...why not?"

"The building site may be closed but that doesn't mean nobody is home John."

"Right, but wouldn't that mean we can just have them arrested there and then?"

He turned and quirked an eyebrow at his lover, watching the dawning realisation on his face. (John should've known better really.)

"You aren't seriously considering taking down the entire mob by yourself Sherlock that is mad!"

He just shrugged and turned away, a strong hand on his arm whipped him back around and his eyes met the furious gaze of his lover. Oh dear.

"No. You aren't doing this. We are just going to pick up Nico and that is it. You understand me? That is **it**."

Well that was no fun. "Relax, Noah won't be there right now any way and if the man the mob is so desperately searching for can mange not to be found then I'm pretty sure _we_ can mange it."

John didn't take his hand off his arm he just squeezed it gently and closed his eyes, turning his face away a little, a long breath out of his nose before he spoke again. "Fine! Fine. But god help me if something happens to either of us I will-"He stopped taking his hand off Sherlock's arm and raising both palms up, shaking his head.

Sherlock understood. "Okay."

A stout nod and the doctor turned his face back to his own window to stare out at the passing streets, too bright white light reflecting from the snow making the air here seem colder than it was and a cough rattled in Sherlock's chest. He tried to keep it quiet but failed when he couldn't stop his throat from seizing up and he leant forwards, stomach muscle, chest, lungs aching as he gasped for breath coughing so hard that he gagged. John was leant over him after a minute rubbing soothing circles in his back and removing his (Sherlock's.) scarf to wrap it around the detective's neck, a tiny frown on his face.

...

He had the cabbie drop them off at the visitor's entrance to the national trust park. There was only one other car here, a woman who owned three dogs, a Doberman and two Jack Russell's. Sherlock leant towards the window of the beat up land rover and sniffed, his reflection in the window was flushed, he looked trussed up and snow was falling in his hair and on his shoulders, clinging to his coat, making him look like a character form some sort of stupid Christmas card.

John appeared behind him and looked in frowning and then up at his lover. "What are you looking at?"

Johns reflection was (Massively.) more attractive. His cheeks were flushed as well but in a way that highlighted the warmth of his eyes, hair slightly damp from melted snow and swept to the side, scarf less neck smooth and although his coat was buttoned to the top Sherlock could still see the slight dent in his skin of the point where his collarbones met. (It was insanely attractive and yet he couldn't tell precisely what about it was so enticing.)

"Nothing." Best not to jump on the doctor when he was about to walk into the lion's den as it were.

They trudged in the direction of the building site, the only sound the soft flutter of snow as it swirled and floated down through the gaps in the leaves above them, the path was pristine and their shoes crunched slightly on the thin crust of ice on top of the new snow. John smiled and reached out grabbing Sherlock's hand. He had a funny sort of look in his eyes and sighed into the bitterly cold air, plumes floating up to mingle in the flurry.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"John..."

"It's just nice to do something _normal_ couples do."

Sherlock thought about it. He had no idea what normal couples did differently. "What do you mean?"

John just laughed and shook his head but didn't answer him. That left Sherlock to think about it as they walked the mile or so to the edge of the national trust property. His mind had supplied him a list of the things he knew they definitely did but it seemed to have gotten stuck on 'kissing' and the more he tried not to think about it (After all, they were about to walk into the proverbial lion's den. God damn that lion's den.) the worse it got until John stopped smiling and was looking at him oddly, tugging on his hand and calling his name.

Sherlock hadn't noticed he had been mumbling to himself in an effort to stop what was now inevitable. He turned and pushed forwards until John's back bumped into a large tree trunk on the path behind them and he carried on pressing forwards until his entire length was up against him fully. He put his hands on John's biceps and gripped tightly as he pushed his way into his mouth, hot lips against his own and John let out a surprised grunt into his mouth which only encouraged him. The doctor kissed him back for a brief moment before Sherlock was suddenly (But not unexpectedly.) gripped by the waist and spun around so he was the one being pushed up against, he was the one who was a victim of the relentless onslaught of teeth and tongue and lips and John's tea stained breath, only pulling back after Sherlock began to feel dizzy from lack of air.

His attacker smiled that crooked smile again and leant his head against the detective's shoulder. "What the hell was that?"

"I was thinking about what normal couples do..."

John just laughed breathlessly and pecked him on the lips again making an answering smile grace his own features. Sherlock sniffed and then widen his eyes, horrified. "John... if I am sick isn't it rather irresponsible to be kissing me like that."

"I wasn't the one who started it and no, I have something called an immune system so I tend not to get sick so damn easily. Not to mention if I was going to catch this particular strain I already would have."

"So ethically it is perfectly okay for me to kiss you."

"Ethically yes."

"Good to know."

...

They circled round the edge of the building site; John had let go of his hands and was crouched on his heels, peering around the small clump of trees. Sherlock was stood a few feet behind him, a thin pine hiding him from sight.

"Okay, so where is this guy then?"

His voice was barely a whisper and Sherlock fought to hear it over the now heavily falling snow. Sherlock peered out and smirked, a fresh trial of footsteps lead from the entry point of the site to what looked like a disused storage shed on the far side of the property.

"This way."

He leant down and crept slowly across the site, dodging behind piles of bricks and heavy machinery, coated in the snow that blanketed everything in a bright shining white, the sky was grey and it almost seemed like night time with the shining ground and dark sky, fierce winds buffeting the men.

They reached the low lying offices across a path from the shed and John made for it. Sherlock gripped him by the shoulder and shook his head, indicating to a pattern of large circular prints that led off into the bushes to their left.

"What? Sherlock the footsteps go that way, why are you dragging me over here... oh."

Sherlock had pulled his lover around the corner and towards a large shipping container almost completely hidden by the bushes. "You are telling me he is in there?" A hoarse whisper too close to his ear that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he fought not to think about the kiss in the forest.

"He planted those footprints, then used something large and circular to increase the surface area of his feet to make as little impression in the snow as possible. He had to hide his true hiding place if they suspected him of hiding here."

John raised both eyebrows and looked from the detective to the container. He looked impressed, Sherlock smirked. (Damn right too.)

The doctor crept forwards ad smiled gesturing for Sherlock to follow, he pulled the door open a little and frowned. The container was empty. Sherlock smirked glancing around and walked past John to the back wall, pushing lightly against a slightly dented area, it creaked and collapsed, the damp damaged walls had been hiding this hole, merely appearing to be a rusted stain rather than a different metal piece altogether.

John gasped and Sherlock crouched down, creeping through into an area that was vaguely reminiscent of the underground homeless communities. A green plastic tarp was tied as a makeshift roof sparing the floor from more snow; in fact the floor was covered with more tarp and held down by empty crates on which were piles of packets of crisps, a large selection of tins and a triplet of Dixie pans. These crates were everywhere, a small five foot square area surrounded by these makeshift shelves and a small trail leading back into the den, Sherlock followed this as John gasped behind him, only just entering the dimly lit shelter.

Ducking his head under a second lower tarp-roof he carried onwards finding large jugs of water, as if taken from a office water dispenser, stored haphazardly in a corner, a bed made of what appeared to be several of the soft foam mats like those used by woman in that program Mrs. Hudson watched (She said it was called yoga or something.) topped with a expensive looking sleeping bag, various torches, knives and bags littered the space around the bed along with a small number of books and a crumbling notebook, tiny mousey handwriting visible on the cover and on the exposed pages that hung limply out of line of the others.

A small area of to the side of this sleeping space had large stones grouped around blackened earth, paper plates littering the ground nearby and the faint aroma of baked beans indicating he hadn't long been here.

Suddenly there was a crashing sound and John yelped. Sherlock span around to see a man about Johns height, brown eyes and a side-parting, knife held to the doctors throat, panic in his eyes.

"Who are you!" He spoke with the tone of a man whose friends would describe him as embarrassingly nice. His eyes flittered around his makeshift home as if checking to see if they had stolen from his humble shelter and Sherlock lifted his hands just like John would. (The doctor must have had a reason to use it so often; it must have worked on other people.)

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"What...what do you want!"

He took a step towards them and Nico tugged on John's arms, the doctors eyes focussed entirely on Sherlock, complete trust in his eyes. (Which made his heart flutter with something a little more than adrenaline.)

"We are here to help you."

Nico narrowed is eyes and gripped John a little tighter, twisting the knife handle in his hands, sweaty palms making it slip a little before he deftly caught it again, a scratch rising pink on Johns neck.

Suddenly the detective's great mind decided now was a time to focus on Johns face intently, the quiet complacency of his eyes, the thin tight line of his mouth that betrayed him as being in the very least _uncomfortable_ and he wondered how he felt. What it was to be in that position. He imagined himself with the cold metal slice of the knife against his throat, all too aware as a doctor of the vital fluid that flowed just beneath that pale skin, the scratch of Nico's jumper on his collarbone; exposed by the ridiculous grasp the now bug eyed man had on him. He wondered if John felt fear, if he felt panic, but his expression was as unreadable as ever and Sherlock could only derive what was fact.

The doctor trusted him to get him out of this tenuous pull.

"Look, here. I have detective inspector Lestrade on speed dial."

Sherlock flipped his phone from (Thankfully, for once.) his own pocket and handed it slowly over to the pink faced man. Nico fumbled with the buttons but scrolled down his contacts and found Lestrade blinking at the name for a moment before thrusting the phone back.

"How do I know it is him?"

"He will be arriving here at the building site in no less than ten minutes. My colleague and I will walk you safely out to him."

"Yes but how do I know."

"You are just going to have to trust him."

John had piped up, he sounded odd. His voice had a soothing quality that seemed to calm his attacker somewhat and it left Sherlock pondering whether his lover was in fact some sort of hypnotist. Nico paused and his worried eyes fell on Sherlock again, sizing him up.

"How can I?"

"I do."

"Yes but you are his cohort..."

"And I trust him enough to let him be the one to decide how I am going to survive this. I trust him."

"How is he the one who is going to decide? I am the one who is going to decide!"

His voice was becoming frantic and Sherlock put his hands behind his back, taking a step towards the bed-pile and away from his lover and the panicked man. "Yes you are. But John is trusting me to find a way to make you make the right decision."

"The right decision?"

"You are just a simple man after all, a simple man with simple pleasures who happened across something he hadn't expected and frankly wasn't ready for."

"Yes...yes. I didn't ask for this!"

"And when the time came you went to extraordinary extremes to protect yourself, to not give in to their demands. To go above and beyond that what lesser men would do."

Nico nodded his head and his hand dropped a little. It was working perfectly.

"And you laid traps and planted evidence and you did all that. _You_ did. I mean I was amazed by the detail you put into it, the thought-"

John had again piped up but this time his voice was admiring, impressed and Sherlock began to frown. It sounded a little _too_ believable. Nico dropped his hand entirely; his arm still wrapped around Johns shoulders, holding him to his chest. But now it was less threatening and more..._familiar_.

"You were?"

"Oh yes. I mean when we got to your house the detectives were completely fooled by the clothes in the closet and everything."

(Sherlock opened his mouth to argue that John was confused by that too and that is was Sherlock who had worked it out but was stopped by the electric jolt of jealousy when John smiled at Nico, his words dying in his throat.)

"Really? I was just running on adrenaline, I didn't even really think about it that much..."

"And coming here? Right into their territory? So brave."

Nico smiled back and blushed a little. He licked his lips, eyes flickering down to John's lips and Sherlock stamped forwards grabbing his lover by the arm and pulling him roughly from the other mans grasp. (He was the only one allowed to look at John's lips. The sooner he got that ring on John's finger the better.)

John looked up at him in shock and then rolled his eyes at the expression on his face. Nico yelped and toppled backwards in shock, crumpling over one of his makeshift shelves. John pulled his arm from Sherlocks vice like grip and bent down over the other man, gently patting him down and the detective could feel his cheeks heating up but memory of the stern glance he had received as the doctor stepped away from him stopped the blushing man from reaching out to grab him again. (It had hurt but he was too proud to let it show. After all he knew he was jealous and he knew it wasn't rational because the doctor was endlessly loyal but to see John's hands on someone else made him angry. Very angry.)

John helped Nico to his feet, softly questioning him to see if he had hit his head or landed on his elbows or something else irrelevant. Sherlock turned away because he didn't want to watch that and was struck by a wave if dizziness that made him stumble a little. He managed to play it off though and elegantly flopped onto the makeshift bed, pulling out his phone to instruct Lestrade where to find them, ignoring the odd looks he was receiving from the other men in the shelter.

His chest still hurt and he pretended to scroll through texts on his phone as he calculated the various aches and pains that forced him to grit his teeth (After all he refused to negate his usual flamboyant movements simply because he hadn't slept properly for a while or he had a fucking cold. His body would not get the best of him. He wouldn't let it.)

After a moment John started a quiet conversation with Nico and Sherlock just tuned them out. He was still feeling a bit dizzy and was trying to take quiet deep breaths so John wouldn't notice.

"Why are you puffing like a bloody suffocating fish?"

Ah Lestrade. A man of such verbosity. Sherlock glared up at the inspector and sat forwards on the bed, not saying anything just making sure to purse his lips in the way he knew irritated the officer. Lestrade rolled his eyes and turned back to what must have been a previous conversation.

"Right, so you are all coming with me then. I will send the boys around to pick up what is left of your things here and Donovan can coordinate the raid thanks to your information."

Gustav was nodding and smiling with a dazed expression on his face, eyes flickering between the inspector and the doctor. John's hands were on his arm and the doctor was grinning, encouraging little blinks and nods only exasperating Sherlocks headache. The detective scowled and Lestrade glanced between the other men raising his eyebrows at the doctor who just continued to look at him without a reaction.

After an (What he supposed was.) awkward moment the detective gestured for Nico and John to lead out, which they did_. _

_Together_.

...

Sherlock made a point of not even looking when he followed, not glancing John's way when he slipped into the backseat with Nico leaving him to sit up front with Lestrade, alone. Not even when John said his name and Lestrade looked across to him, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. He was angry, jealous and wasn't quite sure how to react. So he decided not to react at all.

Sherlock had been listening to his conversation but had also been staring out of the window at the now near empty streets, a stark contrast to the other cars, buses, bikes and vans that surrounded them wherever they went, beeping horns and moving at a snails pace on the frozen roads. He was sweating again, his pale reflection in the window made the dark bags under his eyes even more prominent and he grumbled under his breath, watching himself crouch in his seat. He knew Lestrade was still staring at him and was probably speaking but his eyes had caught on something several cars ahead of them and he blinked.

Oh.

He deftly unclasped his seatbelt and twisted forwards to peer down the road, making sure he hadn't merely imagined what he had seen. But no, he was sure.

Sherlock reached out and pushed his door open, leaping out into the bitterly cold air, his legs wavering only for a moment on the slippery roads and his spell of dizziness before he was off, sprinting down the road. When he reached the black limo, five cars ahead, he skidded to a halt just outside the back doors and looked up to see (Brilliantly.) John panting heavily and staring at him over the roof with an expression that perfectly conveyed his annoyance, confusion and surprise without detracting from his patient sigh and the almost bored roll of his eyes.

"Well?"

Sherlock beamed and ducked own yanking the door open to slide into the car, expensive leather seats soft as he planted himself next to the surprised occupant. John appeared a second later, his gun taken from his waistband as he glanced inside and joined them on the seat, the browning now held to the occupants head.

"Gentlemen."

Sherlock looked at him, really looked, and sighed. (He was disappointed in himself really he should've known.) The man was of indeterminate age, probably something around 40 but could be 10 years either way, brown hair that stuck straight up and that odd smile that didn't leave his face, a face framed by enormous horn rimmed glasses.

"Oh."

It seemed that this man remembered them just as John realised who he was and began to lower his gun that is until Sherlock coughed indicating that would be a bad idea.

"Noah."

Noah turned to face him and that unmovable smile reached his eyes, only slightly. Clearly they had not met some lackey that day on the building site, no; they had been in the presence of the boss. The big cheese. The man feared by seemingly every one and who was now staring at him like he was some sort of gun wielding maniac.(That was John actually. Expect for the maniac bit...collectively perhaps Noah was right.)

"Not interested in the architecture then."

"No. Much less the architecture than the architect."

"You have found him?"

"That is irrelevant right now."

John nodded, frowning and butted in instead. "We know you have put some sort of hit out on us."

"A hit?"

"Yes, and to be honest you should hire some new people because they have obviously failed quite badly seeing as we are both still here so-"

Something wasn't right. "John."

"You should just give up now because-"

Something really _really_ wasn't right because Noah's smile didn't falter but his eyebrows lowered by a fraction and his hands jerked on his knees. "John!"

The doctor stopped talking (Finally.) and Noah raised his eyebrows at the angry glares they shared. "He didn't put a hit out on us."

"He didn't." It was more a statement than a question. John put the gun down and Noah placed his hands in front of himself tilting his head at the detective.

"I did no such thing. I don't know who you gentlemen are but if you are interested in procuring some sort of protection-"

"We don't need protection. Not from you at least."

John seemed irritated, but he couldn't have been nearly as angry as Sherlock who had turned away from the other men to stare down at his hands. He had gotten it wrong. It wasn't the mob at all.

There was still somebody trying to kill them.

Bugger.

Suddenly the door to Sherlock's side was thrust open and Lestrade's annoyed face appeared much too close to Sherlock's, eyes widening and his mouth actually dropped open. (He looked positively idiotic.)

"Ah, you must be the inimitable inspector Lestrade."

He wasn't at a loss for long and the detective snapped his jaw shut, nodding and frowning in Noah's direction. "I am. This way then."

He took a step back and flung a arm out, chin to chest, to let Sherlock scoot out, standing to find three fluorescent jacketed police officers picking their way through the cars, clearly only just called by the DI to arrest Noah.

The mob boss stood up behind him and turned to Lestrade. "Okay. Oh, are these for me? Excellent. Am I walking or..."

"Luckily the station _is_ just around the corner. Not too far."

"Good. Thank you inspector."

Lestrade nodded and Noah wandered off towards the surprised faces of the three officers, waving a hand and smiling (Or not.) at them.

"When exactly were you going to mention that to me?"

"It wasn't definite until I actually got into the car with him."

"That doesn't mean you can just go storming off after-"

He didn't get to hear the rest of the rant because the world went black and he was on the floor, cold seeping through the fabric of his trousers. It took a moment but John appeared from the limo and crouched over him looking deeply into his eyes and frowning as Lestrade bent over them both.

"Sherlock?"

"John."

Well, at least he had his undivided attention again. The doctor reached out and lifted his eyelids with his thumb, shining a torch (Which he appeared to have pulled from nowhere.)into his eyes, his other hand resting on the detectives collarbone and skimming up and down his ribs. He did seem to spend an inordinate amount of time checking people for injuries, all part of his job of course.

"No injuries?"

"No."

"Right, well better get you up then."

Strong hands around his arms and he was lifted to his feet, the doctor dusting him down and tilting his head with a frown, fingers digging through his damp hair. "No bumps, do you feel dizzy? Nauseous? Confused at all?"

Sherlock wasn't listening anymore, Johns hands were moving in slight circles and Sherlocks eyelids were sliding closed and John sighed somewhere in front of him.

"Is he okay?"

"I think so...like I said, he hasn't been sleeping..."

"You should probably take him back to Baker Street."

"Yeah, are you going to be alright-"

"Despite what your worse half thinks I am competent enough to deal with this."

He could almost hear John's smile, taking a tiny step forwards to lean his chest against his shorter lover's shoulder, the doctors hand sliding from his skull to basically loop around Sherlock's waist. He inhaled deeply, the cold air mixing with a hint of the doctor shampoo and he opened his eyes again to se Lestrade giving him an almost concerned look.

"You sure he is okay?"

"Yes. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried."

John snorted and Sherlock frowned. Did Lestrade worry about him? He was straying dangerously into actual father status now but before he could comment on this frankly bizarre display John had begun to walk forwards, pushing Sherlock away from the limo door and to the side of the street, police seemingly everywhere giving them confused glances as he was propelled backwards.

He felt shaky and more tired than he had in hours. His limbs were completely leaden, vision swimming ahead of him as a cough rattled in his chest and John's smile had faded almost instantly, arms under the detective's armpit as he rushed them back to Baker Street.

...

He wasn't sure how they got there, or how he managed to get upstairs and onto the sofa but John was bustling around the kitchen, talking quality on the phone and Sherlock was lying strewn on his back a hideous hand knitted grey blanket thrown over him and he was so very very tired.

But he couldn't sleep. It just simply didn't happen. He listened to the quiet noises of John's bare feet against the floor, his whispered conversation. The smell of that lemon-scented antibacterial spray his lover seemed to covet and the soft flutter of snow only served to torment him. His eyelids were closed but he didn't sleep he just lay there and let his chest rattle weakly, his stomach felt empty and for a moment he considered asking John to make him a sandwich. (John would surely have a heart attack.)

But he didn't and Sherlock spent the time thinking about who could be trying to kill them and getting only one answer. He sniffed, his nose running on the blanket as he curled his toes into the soft fabric. John pattered up to him some time later, pressing a kiss to his forehead and sighing.

"Bed time."

Sherlock bobbed his head a little to indicate he would be coming too and John pattered away leaving him alone in the slightly too cold flat.

He watched the light fade outside the window and moved around his limited space, wrapping the blankets around his shoulder as he rested his bare feet on the ice cold floorboards, trying to cough into his hand so John wouldn't hear.

He didn't like the tiny frown John always got when he was worried about Sherlock. It made his chest hurt and his chest already hurt and he couldn't sleep. (Not to mention it made him uncomfortable because he didn't what to do to make it stop.)

He groaned rubbing the balls of his hands against his eyes, pressing until little white stars lined with blue and red exploded behind his vision and for a moment he thought he could only dream of those stars. He wasn't sure how long he had been but there was a thumping on the stairs and John appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a (Rather too large. Possibly Sherlock's.) green sweater and blue pyjama pants, hands on hips, chin jutted out. He licked his lips and fixed Sherlock with a disapproving glare.

"You didn't come to bed."

"You didn't go to sleep."

Well, if they were going to be pointing out the obvious.

"You didn't come to bed."

"But you didn't go to sleep."

"Stop trying to distract me. Why are you still down here?"

"I was only going to be a minute!"

John didn't say anything he just stared, and stared...and stared. In fact for a full five minutes he did nothing at all, he just kept that steady disapproving gaze on the detective until he felt he was going insane and he leapt from the sofa to pace back and forth, hands clasped behind his back.

"It's these blasted nightmares!"

His voice was too loud in the tiny space (and oddly, dare he say it, _emotional_.)and John seemed much too calm as he turned and sat primly on the sofa, posture indicating Sherlock was supposed to join him and after another minutes furious pacing he did. Their thighs brushed and John reached out a hand to put it on Sherlock's knee. It was oddly comforting, helping only a little with the squirming uncomfortable thing in his chest which stopped him from sleeping and made him panic when John wasn't there and haunted his every waking hour until he was sure he was mad with it.

"Well, good thing I booked you that appointment then."

_**What.**_

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about a therapist."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Oh wow guys. Thank you so much for the reviews (: This is another big one so please tell me what you think of it, or of me or what you had for dinner yesterday, anything really**.

Her eyes had been on him since they entered the poky waiting room. Hideous orange walls and beech wood panelling that creaked along with the ancient floorboards as John side stepped his way in, placing himself in a old batter leather armchair opposite the one other occupant. A woman around forty wearing too tight clothing and a stuffy expression. She was rich, disapproving and clearly not in desperate need of help.

Her eyes didn't leave him as he placed himself in the seat next to John, keeping his eyes on her although in a less conspicuous way. She was judging him that much was obvious. It was what she was judging, if it was his general appearance (Untidy, pale skinned and wheezing.) or that he had come with John _that_ he wasn't sure of. Sherlock sniffed; after all if he was going to be forced to sit here then he might as well make a game of it.

He sighed reaching out to drag his fingertips over John's palm, fingers sliding up to interlink with his lovers. John raised an eyebrow but didn't look up from his magazine. The woman shook her head and shuffled herself around to face away from them a little. Sherlock smirked. He lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to the soft skin on the back of his lover's hand. The doctor looked up from his paper and Sherlock made sure to give his best 'I'm trying to be brave but I am not looking forward to this' smile.

It worked and John pursed his lips, eyebrows coming together a little, genuine concern (Which made him feel what almost could have been guilt. Odd.) as he squeezed the detectives hand. He didn't speak; he just licked his lips and waited for Sherlock to squeeze back before looking away.

The detective forgot what he had been doing for a second in the wake of his lovers gaze, but the outraged muttering of the woman turned him back and he grinned salaciously. It only widened when as he lowered their hands John slid his from his grasp and moved it around so his hand was on top of Sherlocks, fingers interlinking to squeeze the fleshier parts of his palm, thumb anchoring his rough palm to Sherlocks hand. Dominant of course. A ripple of the doctors fingers sent unexpected waves of at first pain and then..._pleasure_, tingling up his arm and he coughed in surprise, wheezing at the unexpected sensation.

John chuckled smugly and he grinned in response, licking his lips and making sure to drag his eyes slowly over John's chest and legs in those jeans, flexing his fingers and twitching an eyebrow at the doctor. (He was also wearing the red sweater, plaid shirt collar poking through the top. Now he thought about it, the doctor looked obscenely good.) This prompted the woman opposite to let out an outraged cry and she got to her feet stamping from the room.

John raised his eyebrows looking to Sherlock, he was still smiling although a little pink as though he had forgotten there were other people in the room. "What was her problem?"

He simply shrugged and the doctor's eyes narrowed. He leant towards him scrutinising his face for a moment before sighing and letting go of his hand.

"I don't suppose you had anything to do with that?"

He opened his mouth to argue when a tall thin man appeared in the doorway, eyes on a clipboard in front of him.

"Mrs. Buhampton?"

He looked up and frowned, glancing back down to his list. "Oh, I suppose she forgot to cancel. Alright no problem, Mr. Holmes then."

He looked up and right into Sherlocks eyes. The detective scowled.

_Therapists_.

His school had sent him to sit with an overbearingly nice, polite female therapist for two weeks. He didn't say a word up until the last day, a vastly important experiment was waiting for him in his dorm and Sherlock couldn't bear the hour spent in her company so he slowly began picking apart her life from her recent divorce to her alcoholism finishing by asking her if she was really qualified to judge him.

It had gotten him back to his experiment but led to a large donation by Mummy to the school and several different 'councillors' and doctors wanting to talk to him. All leading up to the infamous Dr. Gildenhouse. Sherlocks scowl deepened. Oh yes, _Gildenhouse_, how could he ever forget.

John smiled pleasantly and got to his feet, tugging his lover up with him and following the doctor back into the room.

It was modern, glass desk and cream leather chairs, floating bookshelves, a fake palm tree. It seemed odd for this doctor to work from this office and he looked up smiling politely at them.

"Ah you must be Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock ignored their polite conversation to peer at the other doctor more closely. He was as tall as Sherlock certainly, slightly fluffy blonde hair that stuck up oddly in places as if he spent much of time running his fingers through it, blue eyes, slightly weak chin. Eyebrow drawn together, wrinkle lines on his forehead and around his eyes, an expressive man then, often confused, angry and joyous. His accent was posh, posture resoundingly straight and chest puffed out slightly. Military then and Sherlock squinted imagining him into uniform.

Yes definitely.

He seemed almost forcefully polite, smiling wide in a way that must have been comforting to other people because John was grinning too and they both turned to look at him. Sherlock didn't say anything so John frowned and sat down across the desk from the doctor. A name tag on his desk.

'Phillips.'

It didn't seem right and he stopped staring to listen for a moment.

"-and of course I haven't had a chance to redecorate. Doctor Phillips left rather unexpectedly."

"Who are you?"

This made the man blink in shock but he put the clipboard down and looked at him smiling politely. "I suppose you haven't been listening. I am doctor Barrows. It is nice to meet you Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock nodded his head. Ah, so he was new. Untested, here at least.

"You are an army doctor."

"We are not here to talk about me Sherlock."

Ah, just _took_ the use of his first name. Didn't ask. Shows he is forceful but not overly so, in charge but not bossy.

"Well, I am certainly not here to talk about me."

The doctor smiled and turned back to John who was glaring at the detective. "Thank you, I think I can take it from here."

Sherlock frowned. He had been under the impression that John was going to be staying with him, that he would have his lover to bounce off. The doctor got to his feet smiling, shaking Dr. Barrow's hand with a stout nod before turning to frown down at his lover.

"Behave Sherlock. This could actually help you."

He rolled his eyes but didn't resist when John bent down to press his lips against his forehead and then to his lips for a moment before pulling away and giving him a glance over. Something about Sherlocks crouched, defensive stance seemed to satisfy him and he was gone in a puff of lightly lemon scented air.

That left him alone with Barrows. The psychiatrist peered at him over the top of his clipboard (It appeared to be adhered to his hand. Perhaps a coping technique? Something to remind himself that he is in charge?) and sniffed. Sherlock made a point of not looking at him directly, sternly reading the tiles of the books on the shelves, the quiet breathing of the other man and the dripping of the loose washer in his adjoining bathroom the only sounds as time dragged on.

"Well, if you're not going to start... John tells me you are having trouble sleeping."

He whipped his head back around and glared at the man. "John? You knew him before now then."

"We met, _briefly_."

Wait...surely he wasn't insinuating what he thought he was...

"He was on a carrier jet with me. We had a rather interesting conversation on the psych of the soldier."

Oh. Of course, John had said he had kept his bisexuality secret until he met Sherlock. No need to get the sudden desire to strangle this man. No need at all.

"You get jealous a lot don't you."

The detective blinked. What was he talking about? How had he noticed that...

"I can tell by your eyes that you don't trust me Sherlock but that is not why we are here. You don't have to trust me to confide in me."

"I thought that was the whole point."

"Not necessarily. How can you truly trust a stranger on a ledge? You can still tell them why you are there and perhaps they can help you, but perhaps...perhaps they will just push you off."

"You are saying I am on a ledge."

"No. I am saying you look terrible, your partner is worried about you and that these nightmares are affecting your life in a very negative sense."

"What has John told you?"

"Only that he is concerned for your health and that you have nightmares that stop you from sleeping. It is your decision if we talk about what these nightmares involve or other concerns in your life."

"I don't want to talk about anything. I want to go home."

"Well that is not going to happen. Why don't you tell me when these nightmares started?"

He didn't reply. He had already said too much.

"Well if you don't want to talk about the nightmares why don't we start with your jealousy?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but still didn't speak. He had caught him out once, it wasn't happening again. The other man barely paused for a response simply raising an eyebrow and reaching into the desk in front of himself.

"Do you mind if I smoke?"

Again. He did nothing. The doctor smiled and pulled out a pipe, taking his time filling the base and taking long inhales. His face was beginning to become obscured by the smoke before he waved a hand (In a practiced manner. Interesting.) to clear it, giving Sherlock a calculated look.

"Judging by your general demeanour I assume you haven't been in many relationships?"

Sherlock snorted, he clearly didn't mind making rash assumptions about people. (It was oddly appealing. But then he did remind the detective of himself. But only a little.) The doctor relaxed into his chair, puffing his pipe for moment.

"So you are bound to be unsure in a new relationship, perhaps you are frightened that your inexperience will cause John to wander? Perhaps your jealousy stems from insecurity..."

Sherlock stamped his feet on the floor, hands on knees. "I am not insecure!"

"Really? So you are completely confident about your relationship?"

"Yes. John loves me."

"Good. Then perhaps the jealousy is stemming from somewhere else?"

"Oh really? Like what?"

"A lonely childhood can lead some to cling closely to those who accept them later in life."

Did he know about Jeremy? How was that possible! _Witchcraft_. He narrowed his eyes. "I haven't had nightmares since I was a boy."

He was not going to talk about Jeremy, no matter what this man said. The doctor gave him a wide toothy grin and puffed on his pipe a little. "But this recent bout, they started soon after you returned from a traumatic experience?"

"It wasn't traumatic. I am fine."

"I am sure you are, but perhaps subconsciously the experience did affect you in some way and added to the stress of that is all the worry and responsibility that comes with a new relationship."

What did he mean? His dreams... they did almost always have John in them. But then there was another recurring theme...

"I dream that I... I don't know the answer."

The doctor made a noncommittal noise but his hand was flying across the paper in front of him. Sherlock looked away, his stomach lurched and he felt bile in his throat. What could he discover from those few words? What was making him frown like that? (He felt glad now that he didn't mention the man from his dreams.)

"I see, this must be very distressing for you. You are a very intelligent man and many people probably rely on your decisions, on what you know and I suppose you must be undated with work."

Sherlock bit his lip. They did rely on his brain. John did.

"That must be very stressful." (This was where he was wrong. It wasn't stressful it was...intoxicating. The more work the better.)

The doctor glanced up and he raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "Or maybe not, maybe it's the idea that you won't be able to help that is the problem not that it is too much work..."

Sherlock put his hands under his armpits and pressed his tongue over the painful lump on his lip from where he had been biting down too hard. This was becoming uncomfortable. It wasn't helping, and it didn't seem to have anything to do with his dreams.

"You miss her don't you."

The doctor blinked and looked up fixing him with a confused gaze. "Pardon?"

"You miss the woman you left behind..."

The doctor frowned and puffed on his pipe crossing and uncrossing his lags. Sherlock felt the lurching of his stomach ease and he smirked. It was obvious really; he had humoured this man for too long. Time to do what he did best.

"How did you know about Alex?"

He smiled and the doctor crossed his arms taking his pipe out of his mouth the point it at the detective after he didn't answer.

"If you don't want to talk about yourself Mr. Holmes I am happy to talk to you about me. But only if you can tell me how you know about Alex."

"Easy. You are wearing a ring but not on your ring finger, it's engraved with initials. **A.R**. They are not your initials."

"It could've been a parent...a grandparent? What made you think lover?"

"The technique and size of the engraving implies romantic connotations as does the manner in which you wear it, it is a newer style and judging by your looks and your approximate age your parents would be too old to have bought it for each other and so you could not have inherited it. So it must be a romantic gift given to you."

The doctor lifted his hand and peered at his ring, his lips twitching thoughtfully. "Impressive."

Oh he wasn't done yet.

"That particular style was common in the southern states; I have seen one similar on a young female. Nasty murder suicide. The ring had been a gift from her soldier fiancée..."

The doctor ducked his head, chin to chest and inhaled deeply through his nose. Ah, there it was. Something had hit home.

"She was a soldier too then?"

"We couldn't be together, different rank different specialities... it would never have even been allowed."

Sherlock frowned. There was something here he was missing...

A buzzer went off suddenly, interrupting the doctor's thoughts and he looked up, dazed blinking heavily.

"Oh right. Well. Mr. Holmes this chat was just a little introductory, same time next week I think. Hopefully next time we will get down to some work." He was yammering, sticking out his hand to shake the detectives, his calm manner slowly returning. Sherlock got to his feet.

"I am not coming back."

"You are allowed to bring drinks or snacks, anything to make you feel more at home."

The doctor smiled broadly and stood too, rounding the table to lead Sherlock out. It seemed he wasn't taking no for an answer. (He also didn't seem offended by Sherlocks deductions... not the norm but understandable. Psychiatrists had always been an introverted sort.)

John was pacing the waiting room. Glancing up and trying to appear nonchalant as he greeted the two men. "Hey, he wasn't too bad I hope..."

"Oh no. Not at all."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows glancing over Johns head to catch the other doctors' eye. He simply carried on smiling, a glint in his gaze that confused the detective. John was smiling, happy and he reached down to grab the taller man's hand, pulling him out of the office, silent and a little bit tense.

He kept flexing his fingers in Sherlocks grasp, glancing his way and back. He clearly wanted to ask about the session but Sherlock was tired, is chest hurt from the doctors smoke and his cold and so he just curled around himself in the cab, comfortable silence with no pressure to talk. This was what he liked the most about riding in a cab with John. The drivers always ignored them because they were together and so if he didn't want to talk he didn't have too, John knew when to shut up.

...

Back at the flat John had gone straight to the kitchen when they had gotten in leaving Sherlock to flop onto the sofa. His eyes drooped and he felt himself falling to sleep but maddeningly he stayed on the precipice, his mind sluggish, already half asleep and yet his body wouldn't let go and he growled under his breath. He felt a warm breeze against the hairs and his arm and forced his eyelids open to see John standing over him, frowning.

He looked worried.

Sherlock sighed letting his eyes close again.

"Still can't sleep?"

"I told you it wouldn't work."

"Give him a chance Sherlock. He is a brilliant doctor."

He just snorted and listened to Johns sock covered feet padding back across the floor, returning a few minutes later with something cold that he pushed against the detective's ribs. Sherlock held a breath in for a moment before swinging his legs over and sitting up, blinking as the doctor joined him on the sofa; two plates piled high in his hands. (Surely one of those wasn't for him.)

One of the plates had almost twice as much on it as the other and it was thrust into his hands. John, in an almost absent minded manner, forked at the salad on his own plate, blinking up at the TV screen.

Sherlock looked down at his 'meal'.

It was an extra ordinarily large serving of salad along with some sort of chicken in some strange creamy sauce. To be honest it smelt delicious but he didn't want to eat. Eating made his mind slow and if it got any slower right then it might've stopped.

"Eat."

It wasn't a request, it was an order and Sherlock pouted, hands clasping the edges of the plate. John looked at him raising an eyebrow in a way that made him uncomfortable. Like denying breaking a school rule to a head teacher when they saw you commit the act.

"You are not going to stop getting sick by magic. You need to build up an immune system and to do that your body needs energy. Eat."

He tried to look away but Johns eyes were intense, his lip set in a stern line and for a moment he considered throwing the plate across the room and diving onto his lover but...John wouldn't like that. Not one bit. Well...maybe a _little_ bit but he definitely should...

"Sherlock!"

He shook his head trying to clear his thoughts and John tilted his head until he prodded the chicken, cutting a small piece off and placing it on his tongue, smiling sheepishly around the fork. John waited for him to chew and swallow the mouthful before his face broke into a wide grin and he nodded turning back to watch TV, his eyes flickering back to the detective every few minutes.(Again it seemed almost worth it to have John smile at him like that, to be pleased with him.)

It took him a while but he finished it, moaning lightly and sliding back in his seat as he fought to swallow the last mouthful. His stomach was stretched, his eyes dipping dangerously low as he tried to lift himself from the sofa. It was too much effort so he simply let himself slump against the cool leather, his eyes closed and he heard John chuckle, the warmth of his body moving away.

The dozing man grunted as he slid sideways and slowly tugged his legs up, tucking his knees against his chest. He could hear the sound of running water and John was whistling under his breath, clearly happy. (It was oddly comforting. The only way it could get more comforting was if-)

Suddenly he felt warm arms on him and he was gently prodded backwards, the doctor pushing up against him, back to his chest, pulling Sherlocks arms around his front so he was holding the doctor close. John sighed and he could feel his smile in the air around them, so he buried his face in the other mans neck, breathing in his scent letting it smother his other senses and finally, _finally_ he slept.

...

He was alone; it was so dark in here. The sounds of his breathing echoed around him, the crash as he sucked in a breath. He squinted into the darkness and tried to focus on his feet. The floor was tiled, small square white tile that glinted back to him, the dark shadow of his reflection peering up at him from a million tiny faces. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and paused, he was sure he had heard... And there it was again.

A dripping noise somewhere away from him, in the darkness, drip drip drip.

He licked his lips and the darkness closed in around him, his heart thundered in his chest and he felt the urge to run begin sliding through his veins until a cold sweat broke out on his forehead and he was forced to walk towards the noise, to the steady dripping of water.

It glistened as it fell, a small puddle slowly growing drop by drop. He watched it for what felt like an eternity until he heard a soft sigh from far behind him and spinning on the spot he could only just make out the shape of man in the gloom. Or was it a man? Was it simply his eyes forming monsters where there stood nothing? Could he trust his own vision, his hearing, could he trust _himself_?

He couldn't be sure and he took a step back, his heels splashing in the ice cold water, soaking through his sock and into his shoe. The water was deeper then he imagined and he heard the dripping suddenly speed up, now a trickle then a stream and it was pouring out, water spreading away past his feet.

Panic gripped Sherlocks chest and he ran past the water's edge scrabbling for the side of the pool. But they were too tall and the water slid towards him and he jumped and clawed furiously at the slick smooth walls his panicked gasping only worsened by the pounding of his heart and the mad dash of his stomach as he tried to stop himself gagging on it.

But the water kept coming and he couldn't get out, peering desperately up at the edge and for a second he could've sworn he had seen a single shiny black shoe poking over the impossible tiled walls and he sucked in a breath.

A mistake because now the water was thrashing against his back and he was swept away from the walls, out in waist deep water to what he was sure was the middle of a impossibly large swimming pool. The stench of chlorine burnt his nose and his eyes wept for the sting of it and no matter how hard he tried, clawing and kicking his legs he couldn't stay on the surface, deafening roaring of a great flood filled his ears and he was thrown back and forth amongst the black waves. He couldn't breathe, the chemical water filled his mouth and his lungs burned as he gasped and groped for air, he was drowning and the stream showed no signs of slowing its rapid ascent as he pushed and thrashed his tired arms around to try and keep his head above the rising tide.

It must have covered those tiled walls by now and yet he was still stuck in the middle, battered by the waves. With a growl he set his face into a fierce glare and pushed forwards kicking with what little strength he had left until the glistening white edges winked at him in the darkness and he pushed harder and harder until he could almost close his fingers onto the edge of it.

But his strength failed and his arms became leaden and he screamed for mercy as he sank deeper into the water, the flickering image of the man, pale luminous skin, hand in pocket, sly smile and a single shining shoe as he leant just over the edge to watch Sherlock be dragged helplessly into the depths. He screamed and screamed but it was no use.

It was too late.

...

He woke with a start. He was lying on the living room floor; John crouched over him, a tear streaking down his face. Sherlock closed his eyes for a second, taking deep breaths as the doctor slumped back against the sofa, his legs thrown over the longer limbs of his lover. When he looked the doctor had his eyes closed too and was frowning, shaking his head.

It appeared his nightmares affect John more strongly than he thought.

The flat was dark but the sky outside was beginning to grow lighter, the traffic outside distant and less frequent than usual. It was early morning it seemed, they had slept for a long time. Until of course Sherlock had woken the doctor.

"You were screaming..."

His voice was barely above a whisper but it made the detectives heart pound just that much harder, his clothes damp with sweat, eyes watery with unshed tears, throat hoarse and dry. Sherlock frowned, he felt disgusting. He considered climbing to his feet, going for a shower, but then he looked back to the soldier and scooted around to lean his back against the sofa too, reaching out a hand, searching for his partners.

Johns fingers closed around his and the doctor sighed leaning his head on the taller mans shoulder.

"John I-"

"I know you don't understand it but...you were so frightened. I have never seen... It was _upsetting_."

Sherlock closed his mouth. (It amazed him still when his lover managed to read his mind like that. But his amazement was no match for the pain in his chest when John's voice broke at the last word.)

"I am sorry."

John shook his head and looked up at him. "It wasn't your fault."

He bit his lip; if there was something he could do to stop these phantoms he would hurry to achieve it.

"I will go back to Dr. Barrows."

John raised an eyebrow but didn't speak. It left the detective staring across the room at the fireplace, his eyes landing on his skull. It reminded him of his conversation with the psychiatrist, about his past.

"He thinks I am jealous and that it is because I have never had this before, he thinks I am insecure."

The doctor blinked at him, clearly a bit shocked. "_Insecure_?"

Sherlock nodded and John regarded him carefully for moment before his face broke into a tiny grin. (It was a victory, although he wasn't sure exactly what he had done to entice it. He was simply pleased that John did not agree, despite the fact Sherlock himself secretly deep down **did**.)

"Has he seen the size of your head! You are the most arrogant person I know!"

Sherlock laughed and John joined in shaking his head and groaning as he got awkwardly to his feet.

"Come on, I think we should wake Lestrade up, he might have a new case for you."

...

To nobody's surprise the Inspector _was_ awake at 5.21 in the morning and was sat at his desk in his office listening to quiet jazz as he did his paperwork. That is until Sherlock Holmes burst through his door and threw himself into the (Only.) other chair, kicking his feet up onto the desk to cross them at the ankles.

Lestrade finished his sentence and sighed, carefully placing the files to his left before looking up at the doctor who tutted and shook his head, giving his lover a glare.

"You have a case for me?"

"I could've brought it around later. You didn't have to burst in here."

"Give it to me."

He stuck out a hand and the long suffering DI yanked open his top drawer. He proffered a manila folder at the practically springy detective with an exaggerated eye roll, John sighing in agreement but unable to hide the smirk that blossomed on his face. Sherlock felt rested, at least more rested than he had for a while and snatched the file towards his chest, his reawakened mind entirely focussed on the next case, the next puzzle.

Inside was a missing persons report, a collection of statements and a personal jet schematic. He trapped his top lip between his teeth as his eyes scoured the neat type, bouncing himself up and down as he balanced on the back legs of his chair, feet pressed up against the edge of Lestrade's desk. The other men were silent, watching him read, watching his mind work with reverence.

"Walter Forshaw, missing person boarded a private jet bound for Miami but didn't manage to get off..."

John put his hands on his hips and waited. (For the inevitable.)

"I'll take it."

He snapped the file shut and grinned wildly at the DI, his mind still on the statements, the report. Lestrade nodded and he heard John go for the door handle behind him, stopped by Lestrade raising a finger.

"Oh yeah. Sherlock this came for you at the front desk..."

He reached into the drawer again and pulled out an envelope. Johns arm reached over his shoulder to take it.

"We had it scanned."

He watched John slide a finger under the opening and suddenly a familiar sense of panic enveloped the detective and he launched himself from the chair.

"**Stop**!"

John froze instantly. "_What_?"

This scenario was very very familiar. It hit him then who could be trying to kill them, the sleek black cars, and the well tailored suits. It could be only one dark tormentor.

"Give that to me."

John frowned and his fingers tightened. Defiant. Idiotic. "No."

"John give me the envelope."

"No!"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and took a slow step towards his lover, trying to make him understand just by frowning at him. (John was always able to read his mind, why not now?)

"John, _please_."

Lestrade actually gasped at the great Sherlock Holmes begging, pleading, another man's actions but Sherlock ignored that because John was slowly handing the thin paper over to him, his fingers brushing against the doctors rougher skin and that mouth was set in a thin white line, his beautiful eyes betraying him. He was frightened. That was alarming.

Finally the paper was in his grasp and he took it over to the light, carefully using a pen to slide the lid open, pulling the gap apart. But there was no powder, no poison. Just a note.

He pulled it out and heard John slump into his chair, Lestrade's hand flying to his forehead. "What does it say?" The DI sounded tired, as tired as Sherlock felt without his adrenaline.

Sherlock flipped it over and in flowing italic writing was a single word.

_Surprise!_

It took him just a second to read and to look up, out of Lestrade's window to the building opposite, his eyes catching on something metal glinting against the snow topped roofs. His eyes widened and he dropped to his knees yelling out. "Duck!"

For a few minutes there was no sound and he carefully lifted his arms up off of his head to see Lestrade stood by the window barking orders into his mobile and John groggily picking himself up from where his chair had been thrown sideways by Sherlocks lunging body.

Behind him in the wall (And destroying a particularly hideous picture Lestrade had put up.) were four bullet holes, perfectly matching the four holes in the window. They were at head height, tracking Sherlocks movement downwards and he put a hand to the top of his head but there was no blood, no wound.

He had missed him by mere centimetres.

John stretched and looked around his eyes catching on the detective still curled on his heels, arm wrapped around his knees, fingers gingerly brushing through his hair.

"Sherlock, you okay?"

The detective nodded and stretched his legs, shakily getting to his feet. He gave the doctor a once over and turned to the window, striding over to peer out across the street. There was an imprint in the snow on the roof, the gun left on its stand, the door still banging as the gunman had fled.

"What the hell was that!"

"Oh just whoever is trying to kill me and Sherlock."

Lestrade paused and span slowly on his heels, phone dropping from his ear eyebrows slowly sliding down his face until his infamous 'death glare' appeared. John, to his credit, did not shrivel under the gaze; he appeared almost nonchalant if a bit irritated by the events.

"_What_?"

...

The taxi ride back was tense. John had gripped his hand as soon as they left Lestrade's office and hadn't let go, his thumb smoothing over and over the knuckle of Sherlocks own digit. Sherlock made a point of appearing unaffected and to be honest he was, not by the gunman at least. The attempts on his life did not scare him, Johns reaction to them did. His nightmares didn't affect him in waking but they did affect John.

He snarled at the window. The doctors face, his tear streaked cheek haunted him, the doctor was fearless in all other things, even with a gun pointed at his head but when it was Sherlock at the end of that barrel, when it was Sherlock be woken at night in terror he was _frightened_. It seemed inherently wrong.

John squeezed his fingers lightly y and he turned to look at the doctor. "How long until he tells Mycroft?"

Once his sibling heard of the numerous attempts and that they still didn't know who was behind them he would become...insufferable. (He had after all been under the impression that it was only the mob who was trying to kill his brother. Practical amateurs. But if it was something more than that, someone more dangerous, more ruthless. Well, his brother _would_ be worried.)

"We might have tonight."

Something glinted in the doctors eyes and he nodded vaguely, licking his lips. "Right. So we have one night of freedom before your brother's men start crowding us?"

"If that."

The doctor looked away and he hadn't thought it possible but now the air was even more tense Johns shoulder set, his hand to his lips as he chewed on his thumbnail, eyes moving slightly as though he was thinking. Hard.

...

The book was heavy against his legs, comforting. He was curled in Johns chair an ancient tome detailing cases at the old bailey balanced on his knees as a fire crackled in the fireplace, John having disappeared out to buy groceries or something. He had left his radio on and the dulcet tones of the news reporter murmured to him from the kitchen, snow fluttering outside frosted windows. It was warm in here, he had been allowed to wear the red sweater and John had made him a pot of tea before he left, silent and dutiful.

Sherlock smiled, reaching out a hand to grasp his mug, bringing it to his lips and inhaling the steaming elixir. He had drunk almost the entire pot and was starting to wonder when the doctor would be back, when he could have more tea, more slow lingering kisses as though he hadn't wanted to leave. A far cry from that morning, from the cold of the floorboards against his skin, the pain of the panic in Johns eyes.

The front door slammed and he glanced up from the case notes of Mr. Garrow to stare out at the thickly flowing snow as he listened to a familiar beat of footsteps climbing the stairs.

"It's only me."

Ah, home at last. He listened as the doctors continued his ascent, the beat carrying him across the upper landing and into their bedroom. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and set his book on the side, downing the last of his tea and stretching his long legs slowly. His head felt better from renewed serotonin and he grinned. He had one night without his brother's interference and he knew just what he wanted to do with it. He turned to head for the bedroom himself to find the doorway blocked. He sucked in a breath as his stomach dropped and his heart rocketed to his throat.

John was leant against the doorframe, smiling a wide open _happy_ smile, his hair swept to the side, arms and legs clad in a dark grey suit he didn't recognise. He would have definitely remembered it. Beneath that he wore a plain black shirt unbuttoned at the neck, a thin grey tie loosely tightened about his neck and ending just above his waist, thin black belt with a silver buckle and pointed black shoes to complete the outfit.

"Hey."

Sherlock opened his mouth but no sound came out, he blushed raising a hand to gesture uselessly at Johns appearance. "Uhg...uhm...uhguhu?"

John laughed a slight pink tinge to his cheeks, eyes downturned bashfully. "I was thinking, we could go out...dinner. Our last night of freedom before we are smothered by your brothers concern again."

"Are you asking me out on a date?"

John laughed, rolling his eyes up and shaking his head. He licked his lips and put his hands in his pockets looking the detective up and down.

"Yeah, I guess I am."

...

It had taken every ounce of his willpower not to jump the doctor as they trotted down deserted streets, snow coating every surface making the cars the buildings the road twinkle in the streetlight. The doctors hand was clasping his gently and they walked in silence, turning left and right until they came to a restaurant hidden halfway down an alley.

'The hole in the wall' picked out in golden paint on a faded red sign above the door and John opened it for him, letting him walk in first. It was small, only a dozen tables packed into the tiny room, the air heavily scented and thick to breathe. It was very warm in the restaurant, dimly lit with a single candlestick holding three candles each on every table. It was perfect, hidden, close and comforting. Everything Sherlock enjoyed in a restaurant.

He turned to grin at John, the doctors smile widening a fraction when he saw Sherlock was satisfied.

"Table for two, under Watson?"

The woman nodded and showed them to their table, glancing between the men with a pleasant smile. Sherlock didn't speak until they had their drinks, the doctor sipping at his, careful not to stare at his lover or demand a opinion.

(He felt his stomach flipping over and over and it was getting to him. He had to say something but John was right; he had never been on a date before. He didn't know the protocol.)

"John this is...it's...lovely."

John grinned and nodded proudly. He had said the right thing.

"Well it **is** our first date, I wanted to impress."

"Consider me impressed then."

John chuckled and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

It was strange, to sit in a restaurant not for surveillance, not to gather information but simply to enjoy the company of another person, of a person who was there just for _him_. It was strange to talk of everything but his work or the predicament they found themselves in, the constant threat of danger. It was strange to understand that movie he had watched, the sappy sentiments of music and film, to just spend time for the sake of it.

He found he enjoyed it very much and by the time they left the restaurant he was almost giddy, drunk on John's attention, on his laugh, on his eyes. The doctor had pulled him away through the silent streets, zig zagging in the opposite direction of home.

"John? Where are you taking me?"

The doctor didn't answer and he found he didn't care, his hand was warm against his palm and he could smell the spicy aftershave on his skin and he simply didn't care.

They walked for a few minutes until they reached the edge of Regents Park, John tugging his hand to encourage him to follow and they moved through the dark pathways, winding away through shining sparkling drifts. The fluttering of the snow and the crunching of their shoes were the only sounds as the couple wandered past the ice topped lake, over slippery bridges and onwards to a covered seating area on an elevated footpath.

John pulled him over to the bench and they sat together, staring out across the white blanket that stretched before them seeming as wide and expansive as the sea on a bright clear day. It was cold out here, their breath ghosting and fusing in the air before them.

Sherlock scooted sideways to leech the warmth from his lover, leaning his head against the doctor's shoulder and breathing in his scent, letting it fog his brain until all he could think of was the warmth and the comfort of John and he never wanted to leave.

But the doctor tensed and relaxed and tensed and relaxed and after a few moments he shifted away, getting to his feet. Sherlock frowned looking up at him; surely he wouldn't leave now...

John made eye contact for a second, his cheeks darkening and a nervous light shining in his eyes. And then he knew, he knew why John had brought him here. The doctor sank down onto one knee and reached into his pocket and for a second Sherlock forgot how to breathe.

Johns eyes seemed enormous in the half light, a hesitant smile on his striking face as he opened the small black box to reveal a simple silver band that winked up at him cheerfully. His heart was in his throat again and he sucked in a haggard breath.

He understood now why John had wanted to wait to enact his plan. It was...different somehow. It felt _different_ to the simple pleasure he had felt at getting it 'right' when he told John they were getting married that day. It felt more important this way, Johns thought, his _love_ had gone into this moment and it was as perfect as he could've imagined.

"Sherlock, will you marry me?"

John's voice was calm but wavered slightly, showing his anxiety. There was only one answer of course and he smiled all the pain, the torments of his nightmares, of his inability to protect himself and to protect John were forgotten, if only for this one moment.

"Yes."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Wow guys. It's been a while hasn't it. Thank you everyone for the reviews. I hope you like it (: Please tell me what you think?**

He plucked half heartedly on the strings. It was early morning, judging by the suns height in the sky around five or six, and he was curled up in John's chair. His violin was grasped between cold stiff fingers, bare legs draped in the light blue fabric of his dressing gown. (It was many sizes too big for him and yet it was his favourite. As if it was possible to have such a thing.) He was on the pleasing relaxing side of cold, just cool enough to make the hairs on his neck stand on end, but not enough to make him uncomfortable, bare chest goose-fleshed and cold toes curled in the soft fabric beneath him. His legs were bent; heels pressed against his buttocks, instrument hanging loosely from one hand as he laid his head back against the chair, staring down at his hands.

A smile quirked on his lips and he used his thumb to slowly turn the ring in circles, watching the morning light shining on its surface. It was...odd. Something so simple that made his stomach flip and his heart pound in his chest as he thought about it and yet it also felt normal, it felt right.

John was his and now everybody could see that.

Footsteps on the stairs behind him and he picked the instrument up to his chin, dragging the bow across the strings in a slow sweet melody he perfected as a child. A soft sigh from the doorway and he pulled his eyes away from his own hands to look at John. The doctor was also only wearing his boxers, hair sleep rumpled, grin practically shit-eating. Sherlock smirked and the doctor waggled his eyebrows at him, scratching his stomach in an intensely distracting way. It was enough make him drop a note (Or two.) and he heard John chuckle to himself as he trotted towards the kitchen.

Sherlock turned back to look out of the window. The snow had stopped, finally, but he could see dark grey clouds on the horizon, and he found he didn't mind. (In fact snow was becoming one of his favourite weather patterns.) He grinned again picking up the pace of his song and glancing over his shoulder to watch John sway to the music as he poured the tea. He knew this one off by heart and slowed it down again, now a flowing waltz, watching John absentmindedly pick out a few of the steps Sherlock had taught him, grinning to himself.

He looked up, making eye contact and Sherlock was forced to put his violin down for fear of dropping it.

"Here."

The doctor padded across to him and pressed his mug into his hands, bending down to press a soft kiss to his forehead before scrabbling down the side of Sherlocks chair to find the remote. It was an oddly domestic scene and the detective mused on the difference in his own behaviour now he had this relationship. It had awoken a more (Dare he say It.) _emotiona_l side to him, more relaxed...well, with John at least. Other people were still a hindrance to him, still confused him, still **bored** him.

There was a clatter of kitten heels on the stairs, a soft tutting sound and then a knock on the doorframe. Sherlock looked around to see Mrs Hudson with a hand over her eyes holding a shoe and Johns tie in her hand.

"Coo-ee, are you boys decent?"

John bit his lip to stop himself laughing and Sherlock shook his head, twitching an eyebrow. The doctor put his mug down on the side unit and trotted across the room to grab at his trousers, picking them up from the doorway where they had been thrown on their way up to the bedroom the night before.

He slid them on and span around on the spot for a moment, throwing his hands up in exasperation because he couldn't find his shirt.

"John."

Sherlock slipped a hand behind his back and pulled out the red sweater, throwing it at his lovers head. (He ignored the pang of his own betrayal, dressing John indeed. It was entirely counter-productive.)The doctors blushed and pulled it on, gesturing for his dramatically underdressed lover to close his dressing gown.

"It's okay Mrs Hudson, we are decent."

She took her hand away from her face and held it clasped at her waist. "There is a handsome young man at the door for you."

John sighed and nodded, brushing past her to rattle down the stairs. Mrs Hudson smiled after him and turned back to look at Sherlock tilting her head before speaking. "Are you alright?"

"What?"

Sherlock frowned; did he look ill or something?

"Well you are cradling your hand a little..."

His face instantly split into a wide grin and he stuck out his arm, wriggling his fingers so the ring caught the light. He felt triumphant. "It must be because I am not used to wearing this..."

The landladies eyes widened for a second and she hurried across the room taking his hand in hers, lifting it up towards her face to coo at the jewellery. "Oh my, Sherlock dear, John _proposed_?"

"He did. I said yes."

She closed his hand in hers, patting the top of it with a genuinely pleased smile and a light in her eyes. "Congratulations. "

Sherlock beamed a little brighter and she shook her head, turning away a little. "Anyway I must be going, can't stay here all day. You and John will be wanting some alone time I expect."

He didn't say anything he just left is eyes drift back to his hand, a strange fascination with its not oppressive but solid weight on his hand and the shine as it winked up at him. He listened to her trot back down the stairs and then quiet voices in the hall before the front door closed. The detectives face dropped; ah he would not be alone with John after all.

Footsteps behind him and he glanced up surprised to see the doctor **was** alone. In fact he looked irritated... "Sherlock, will you make yourself decent for god's sake."

He pouted. He looked fine thank you very much. "Why should I, this is my flat."

"No, it is _our_ flat and I don't think Becker will be very happy if you carry on like that."

"Oh yeah and why is that?"

"Well, when you sit there looking like that I am going to...to..." The doctor looked away for a second and then back, his cheeks turning pink as he waved his hands in front of himself self consciously.

"Spit it out. What are you going to do?"

"I am going to get hard and I don't think we want him getting the wrong idea."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smirked. "_Really_? You are going to get hard?"

John blushed and purposely looked away. The detective listened out for a second hearing Mrs. Hudson's pots and pans banging the floor below them an idea forming in his mind. She was making tea, they had approximately ten minutes. He smirked and licked his lips slowly, stretching out his bare legs, long enough to reach the other chair where he rested his heels, wriggling his toes and moaning softly under his breath as if the pressure easing on his muscles was pleasurable.

John put his chin to his chest and crossed his arms, a grin he was unable to hide spreading across his face but he still didn't look. The detective reached up and plucked at the front of his dressing gown, the slick silk slid slowly over his skin revealing the pale expanse of his chest as he tensed his stomach muscles and dragged thin fingers over his collarbone.

There was a soft whimper from behind him and Sherlock hid a smirk, trailing a finger up to trap it between his teeth and trace over his lips and suddenly the doctor was across the room, hands on his shoulders mouth covering his, John's hot breath mingling with Sherlocks and he pressed against him with bruising force.

After a minute the doctor pulled back, the detective's lips following him as he tried to maintain contact and John leant his head against his (Smug.) lovers shoulder before his hands darted down to pull the dressing gown closed, tying it tightly and straightening the lapels.

"There."

A polite cough at the door made both men freeze and John peeked over the back of the chair to catch the eyes of commander Becker. The commander grinned and put his hands on his hips, his eyes darting to the lip of the chair and back up to Johns slightly flushed face.

"I can give you a little time if..."

"No no, come in. Sorry we...uh...I..."

Sherlock said nothing he just poked his arm around the arm and waved his wrist regally. "My brother sent you."

"Yes sir."

"Well get on with it."

"Two rooms have been booked at-"

"No."

"I'm sorry sir but it is impera-"

"I said no."

Becker closed his mouth and put his arms behind hind his back, feet planted firmly on the floor. John glanced down at Sherlock as if searching for something. The detective glared right back up at him. He wanted to stay here, at the flat. (He hoped John would understand but John would be worried. He may side with Mycroft. He would want to be safe.)

His face set and Johns matched his, the doctor standing and nodding at Becker. "You heard him commander. We stay."

Becker nodded and strode across the room. For a moment Sherlock wondered if they were going to be drugged and forcibly removed (After all, Mycroft had sunk that low before...although in that instance he hadn't needed to drug Sherlock. The detective had already done it for him.) but the commander simply swung a arm around John to grab the remote and pressed through the channels until the news flicker onto the screen.

_##__ and today is a monumental day for equality. The legalisation of gay marriage-##_

Sherlock froze, his eyes drifting from the screen to Johns rather shell-shocked face. This could only mean one thing. His stomach somersaulted, this...this would mean the world to John.

"I see Mycroft has become aware of our engagement John."

"Really brother, you credit me with too much power."

Mycroft swept into the room with almost silent gush of wind, the soft thump of his umbrella touching the floor acting as an indication of his position in the room. Becker stood to attention and John turned to face the elder Holmes.

"No, I really think I don't."

Mycroft sneered and looked away from the elegant hand of Sherlock to turn to his soon to be brother-in-law and smile. He swept across the room grasping the doctor's hand in his and shaking it surprisingly strongly, wiry arms pumping up and down before he let go.

"Congratulations doctor Watson."

"Thank you."

John was quiet for a moment, the slight twitch of his fingers on the hand closest to Sherlock indicating he was nervous, thinking about asking Mycroft something obviously...

"Did you_ really_...I mean...could you..."

"Oh no no no. You have spent too much time with my brother doctor. The legalisation of gay marriage has been coming for a long time now..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leant forwards to peer around the edge of the chair, squinting his eyes at Mycroft. "Yes but particularly close minded men are still rife in parliament; I don't think they would have found it easy. Do you?"

Mycroft smirked and lifted a hand to his face examining his (perfectly manicured.) nails and glancing out of the window. "Yes well, the campaigners and protestors did most of the work. It was inevitable really, I simply pushed...mentioned that perhaps sooner would be better than later."

Sherlock turned away as John began thanking his brother, leading him to the kitchen for a drink. His mind wandered from his family, from John and instead he thought about the case, the disappearing man.

His eyes drifted out of the window to the houses opposite and the small flock of birds huddled together against the cold. Another fluttered down from the sky, its movements causing snow to slide off the roof and drop down to the windowsill below completely covering a lone pigeon. As it shook the flurry from its feathers Sherlocks great mind whirred into action and he was struck by an idea. Leaping from his seat the detective rushed past John and Mycroft, down the stairs and out to the car.

It took the other men a full two minutes to catch up and by this time Sherlock was upside down in the driver's seat of Beckers car, resting on his shoulders he was trying to hotwire the vehicle only stopping when he heard the car door open and John's voice close to his ear.

"Sherlock. What are you doing?"

"I have to get to Lestrade John. I solved the case!"

"You solved the case."

"Yes! Come on, stop wasting time!"

"And so you have to go to Lestrade in your _pants_?"

Sherlock frowned, what did it matter if he wore clothes or not? The facts were still the facts regardless of what he looked like. Then again, judging by the doctors' expression it certainly mattered to him.

"Perhaps if you were to get me some clothes?"

John smiled and nodded (It was enough to almost make Sherlock feel bad for what he was about to do. Almost.) and backed out of the car, trotting up the step into baker street. Sherlock waited for the door to close before joining the wires and starting the car. He flipped himself around and going by instinct alone he managed to pull out of the parking space and head towards the station.

Striding through the station he ignored the gasps and exclamations of lesser mortals, intent on reaching Lestrade before the spark of his genius left him. Thankfully the DI was there, sitting with his arms crossed as Sherlock explained how the missing man had left the plane in disguise and how he was running from the army, in cahoots of course with the larger Russian gentlemen who had also been on the plane.

John burst in just as he finished his deduction and grabbed him by the arm, spinning him on the spot and slamming a plastic bag containing a shirt and a pair of trousers against his chest with enough force to wind him.

"What the **hell** do you think you are doing!"

"Sherlock was just telling me that-"

"I don't care. I don't care about the case he just solved for you. I want to know where in the ridiculous insane brain of his does he think it is just fine to steal commander Beckers car to drive across London without holding a license and strut in here to talk to you in his god damn pants!"

Lestrade chuckled and Johns head whipped around to stare at him, furious gaze forcing the detective to take a more serious expression. (It was actually quite arousing. But it probably wasn't the time to mention that...)

"What _exactly_ is funny about that?"

"N0thing. It's just quite frankly I'm glad that this time he does in fact have clothes on at all."

"You mean he has walked in here-"

"Stark bollock naked. Yeah."

John slapped a hand to his face just as commander Becker appeared in the doorway, crossing his arms and glaring at Sherlock. "It was against your safety protocol to leave Baker street without correct protection Mr. Holmes."

"I was fine! I am fine!"

It was silly really. He made it to the station unharmed, why was everyone so angry at him? "No. No no no. Sherlock go get changed, Becker you go with him right now. I can't believe after everythin-"

John closed his eyes shaking his head and taking a deep breath. Sherlocks buzz from solving the case had all but disappeared. John was mad at him...in fact he was _disappointed_. It stung and he wrapped his arms around himself, the bag hanging loosely from his fingers.

"I'm sorry John."

"Don't, just...don't. Go. Now."

Becker sighed and gestured with his hand for Sherlock to follow him out and the detective glanced sadly at John before he trotted out behind him.

He frowned at himself in the mirror, the quiet knocking of Beckers hands beating out a rhythm as he waited outside echoed around the small space. Irritating. John was furious with him, it was unfair he didn't think about the whole 'trying-to-kill-us' thing. He was focussed on the case, John should have known that. Sherlock growled and scrubbed cold water over his face shaking his head and pouting at his reflection.

A sharp knock against the door broke his reverie and Sherlock turned to face Becker, the commander face peering around the door. "Mr Holmes, we must return to Baker Street."

Sherlock sighed and nodded waving the man away. "Alright, I'll be out in a minute."

Becker nodded and slid away hesitating for a moment and popping his head back around. "If you don't mind me saying sir he was only worried about your safety. In light of everything you have been through I don't think it is that unreasonable to be angry at you."

Sherlock sighed and tried to glare at the commander but it lacked any real venom. Becker was normal, he had experience in relationships and was probably right...although did he really know? After all it was clear that the commanders own partner was missing or otherwise not present. It was obvious from his hair.

John was pacing Lestrade's office when they returned and when Sherlock slunk up to him the doctor fixed him with a slightly stiff gaze. Sherlock paused; he wasn't sure what to do. (It was embarrassing really, normally he would simply shrug everyone else's emotions off but John was different and he didn't want to upset him.) He opened his mouth to speak but the doctor held up a hand closing his eyes and shaking his head. Sherlock looked to Lestrade but the detective wouldn't meet his eyes, a hand to his face. Ah, John must've explained exactly what Sherlock had done.

The commander nudged him in the back and gestured with a bullet proof jacket. "Here."

He put it on careful to strap it tightly, messing with the neckline and pulling it down slowly. He was fussing, avoiding looking up or acknowledging the disappointment and tension in the room. It was almost palpable and he waited for Johns legs to walk out ahead of him before he left the office. Not bothering to say goodbye to Lestrade he slid his hand down his hips and glanced at Johns retreating back, his shoulders were straight and his chin held high indicating he was still angry, however his thumb was rubbing gently against the band on his ring finger and after a moment he glanced back over his shoulder at the detective his eyes softening slightly.

"Sherlock, come on."

He trotted obediently up to the doctor and tried a hesitant smile. (He was unsure if it would work and the moments between his lips curling up and Johns reaction felt like a lifetime.) The doctor sighed and gestured with his head for Sherlock to join him at his side and he reached down running his fingers across Sherlocks palm, leaning towards him as Becker talked on his headset.

"I'm sorry. I know you get tunnel vision when there is a case involved and I know that I am always going to have to share you with your work but there **is** a madman somewhere out there who is out to kill us. You have to understand that it frightens me when you go driving across London in your pants on your own. You could've _died_ Sherlock."

The detective sighed and titled his head at John. "I am sorry."

"I know."

Becker turned back to them and smiled. "Okay we have a short walk to the car park and then back to Baker Street. Mr Holmes is waiting to discuss your wedding and has asked me to inform you that your mother is on route."

Sherlock frowned. _Mummy_? Dammit. He considered their options of escape as they descended the stairs and walked out into the street his eyes catching on a man nearby. Not a man, a boy, no older than 20, his outward body language confident but his eyes flickering back and forth to the door until he spotted them, eyebrow raising just a measure before he coughed into his palm and ran towards them.

"Doctor Watson! Doctor!"

Becker turned towards him and held up a hand blocking the boy from reaching John.

"Uh, hello?"

"John, John Watson?"

"Uh yeah?"

Becker frowned and placed a hand near his hip, he was suspicious. (So was Sherlock but he decided not to speak, he didn't want to interrupt, he wanted more information.) Unfortunately the tiny step away gave the boy enough room to lunge forward, his nervous excited smile disappearing in a instant replaced by a cold hard glint to his eyes and it seemed to happen in slow motion, the knife flying from his sleeve and plunge into Johns stomach just under the edge of the protective vest, and the boy yanked his arm back, dropping the knife to turn and sprint away.

Becker reached out to grab John as the detectives mind focussed entirely on the retreating back of Johns attacker all other stimulus fading to a blurry mess and he was running his legs wind-milling and his feet pounded across the slabs the feeling a vague sensation, dulled by his heart thudding in his chest. Breathing didn't seem to be a factor and he powered onwards as the boy skittered between walkers and cars, crossing the street and climbing up over a wall.

Sherlock followed him without hesitation, leaping up against the cold hard meal, throwing himself over and falling, his eyes still locked on the boy as a black car pulled up beside him and he disappeared inside as it screeched off.

Sherlock lay there on the ground, his face rubbing against the freezing concrete and snow and he blinked the floor shifting beneath him. John...John had been ... He was back on his feet, back over the wall back down the street and now there were police everywhere, a ambulance team lifting a stretcher up into their van and Sherlock rushed across to them.

Strong arms circled around his pulling him back, tripping him as he pulled desperately towards the van, to John. "If you value your life I suggest you release me commander." Becker only tightened his arms, dragging Sherlock backwards to the station and into the lobby.

"Mr Holmes_ please_."

"Get off me!"

"Sherlock!"

Lestrade appeared beside them and helped Becker to push the flailing detective onto one of the stuff plastic chairs in the reception of the station. "No no, I have to go with John!"

"No Sherlock, you are more help to him here. We need you."

The detective slumped in the chair and stared down at his shaking hands, at his ring and he frowned. The panic seemed to desert him all at once and he felt nothing. He was numb, as numb as he had ever been on the drugs and his eyes focussed his heart rate slowly returning to a steady beat. After a minute his head snapped up and Sherlock fixed a cold calculated gaze on Lestrade, ignoring the confused (and rather frightened.) glance Becker gave him.

"The boy was aged between 18 and 20, probably picked up on the street and offered money to stab John. He was nervous but clearly had the pathology to follow through. The man who hired him must've known this, so he did his research."

"If you will provide an e-fit I can search the database, we could get a hit..."

"No. You weren't listening! I said he would've done his research, the boy won't have a record."

"Then how are we supposed to find him?"

"He had mud on his heel, a light grey and stones, pieces of concrete. So he lives on an estate, his hand had a tattoo..."

Sherlock paused; his eyes flickered closed for a moment as he focussed on the image of the boy's hand, the long fingers wrapped around the black plastic handle, white knuckles he was holding it so tightly his hand shook a little. There it was, at the base of his thumb a circular logo, bright and crisp in solid black. It was familiar... he frowned and got to his feet, pacing between Becker (who was guarding the door.) and Lestrade his fingers steeped in front of his face and he glance outwards at the notice board.

He had seen that logo before, he knew he had and the detective elbowed his way past the DI rushing to the board to scrabble at the paper. He pulled the crumpled sheets clear off the wall and tore through to the flyer.

"Here, Brannigans Gym."

He threw the paper at Lestrade, his work was done. The DI looked down, his face was hard and he pursed his lips pulling his walkie from his belt. Sherlock waited for his back to be turned before he faced Becker and pointed at him.

"You-"

But the commander interrupted him. "Mr Holmes I will secure you a new guard at the first opportunity. I can only-"

It was Sherlock turn. "No. No, you stay."

"What? But I allowed this to happen, I should've protected you, I should have protected Doctor Watson."

Sherlock lifted his hand to silence him. He didn't want somebody else, he didn't need another person crowding his life and he certainly didn't trust somebody else. Becker had proven himself competent in other respects and one failure... well he was not going through the process of a new guard when he already had this one. Becker stayed.

"No you stay. Take me to the hospital commander."

Becker blushed slightly and lifted his gun from his waist peering around the door to ensure the perimeter had been secured. They walked across to Becker's car, it had been pulled around for them and Sherlock slid into the front passenger seat. He tapped impatiently on the dash. He had no idea of John's condition and the panic was beginning to build in his chest again, the (Dare he own it.) guilt thrumming in his veins and he pulled out his phone.

No messages.

Fuck.

He glance dup to see the streets of London flying past as they weaved through traffic, sirens of the police bike in front of them flickering and blinding him. He squinted and glanced across to Becker and was hit by a thought. The car the boy had gotten into a car. A car in London. He opened a text and started typing as fast as he could.

**The boy got into a car. License plate GH21 FTR. SH**

He waited for a moment and tensed, relaxing when his phone beeped and Lestrade's reply flickered on screen.

**Searching. Give John my best.**

He slid the phone back in his pocket and pushed open the car door. He jumped out and froze. His mind had been whirring in the background throughout his deductions and suddenly it had provided an answer. Becker touched him gently on the arm and Sherlock jerked at the touch.

"Mr Holmes?"

"Commander..."

He was still staring out across the hospital car park, his eyes fixed on the large plastic sign denoting a particular section of the tarmac.

_M._

His mind sang to him and Sherlock screwed his eye shut.

**M Is For...**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Okay sorry again for the wait. Busy busy busy over here. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed and favourite and everything. Tiny bit of plot in this one (: Please read and review and tell me what you think!**

"Mr Holmes?"

A hand tight on his bicep, the cold snow beginning to flutter and Sherlock shook his hair out of his eyes, blinking at Becker and wrenching his arm from his grasp. He didn't need pity, he didn't need help.

He needed to find John.

That wretched screech of heels against lino as he flew through the hospital to the A&E department and he ignored the protests of staff as he made for the only bed in the ward with a team of doctors and nurses surrounding it. He froze, skidding on his slick soles, his heart pounding in his chest until his eyes managed to focus past the blood stained doctors and the stern nurses to...a _woman_. A woman with lacerations to her face and neck, car crash probably.

John had already been moved?

It meant that either John had stabilised enough to be placed in a room or...or he was dead.

Sherlock turned just as Becker caught up and he could almost feel the commander's breath on his neck as he burst past him through the doors and flew down corridors, up stairways and around random corners until he glanced into a room and was stopped by the sudden sharp realisation that he knew that doctor.

"Mr Holmes!"

It was the pretty boy doctor, the six year old male model from the first time...

Becker appeared beside him and frowned, glancing between the two men. He opened his mouth to speak but the doctor was already ignoring him, already trying to make eye contact with Sherlock.

"Where is he?"

The doctor's face was stern, his hands clasping a clipboard and yet he exuded confidence. "John has suffered a severe injury to-"

Sherlock blinked and suddenly his mind balked at the word severe and he stopped listening. He walked slow steady steps around the shorter man and to the armchair by the window.

His eyes never left the view.

He wouldn't look, he couldn't.

He didn't listen to the doctor, letting his voice just float over him because he didn't want to hear, he didn't look at the bed where John lay because he didn't want to see and he didn't blink because he didn't want to _remember_.

He was vaguely aware of the sounds of a heart rate monitor bleeping weakly nearby and the voices of Becker and the doctor muffled by his own heavy breathing. He felt eyes on the back of his neck for a few moments after the voices stopped and he waited for Becker to leave before he let himself pull his legs up, wrapping his arms around his knees and blinking out at the now heavily falling snow.

He didn't want to remember John's gray skin, the clear and certain image of his hovering between life and death.

So he sat and he stared and he tried not to think about what had just happened. But he didn't have anything else to think about, he had solved his only other case. So instead, he tried something that he had used as a child to get through boring plays and irritating lessons at school. He began naming countries, their capital cities and longitude latitude of the capital city in question in his head starting with Russia.

Russia, Moscow, 55.05N 37.35E...

He blinked, had his eyes slid closed? How long had he been asleep? Sherlock sniffed and rubbed a hand over his face letting his feet drop to the floor from the window ledge and in the motion swivelling his body slightly towards the bed.

It was almost as though he couldn't stop himself and he sucked in a sharp breath when his gaze connected to John.

His lover was completely still, almost statuesque. His arms were laid across his chest and his eyes were closed with an almost unearthly glow shimmering off his skin, it was cold, like sunlight bouncing off of snow.

Sherlock frowned and got up, walking across to the bed a horrifying fact presenting itself to him and making his stomach lurch. John wasn't_ breathing_; his skin was alabaster white and his face gut wrenchingly slack.

He reached out a hand to touch him, to feel his skin, when John's eyes flew open and fixed on him but they were different. They weren't John's eyes at all but the shining bright almost black eyes that had flashed at him in his darkest nightmares. Followed by the mocking, grating laugh echoing from his memory and booming from Johns open mouth, his handsome smile warped and twisted into a face, an image that made his blood run cold.

Sherlock reared backwards skidding on the floor and screwing his eyes shut as he fell, the close breath of the beast sticking to his skin.

He woke with a start his stomach lurching as he gasped for breath. He resisted the urge to look at the bed, to see that John was still living and yet he couldn't. (He would never admit it out loud but the voice in his head screamed that if he looked nightmare may very well become reality.)

Footsteps on lino and Sherlock got to his feet tugging down his top and running his fingers through his hair, no need to be seen in such disarray. (No need to be human.) His face slid into its once familiar bored expression and he looked to the hallway quirking an eyebrow as Lestrade strode into view. He looked surprised to see Sherlock stood like that and looked away from the stern detective to where John lay. He didn't say anything.

"Well?"

"We got a hit on ANPR, the car belongs to a Mr Phillip Travers...I have his address if you want to..."

Sherlock nodded and moved to leave the room but his head swam for a second and he waited for a moment for it to clear. "Wait in the reception."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to answer back but he seemed to reconsider and turned away, his heavy footfalls echoing through the tiles floors of the hospital. Sherlock waited for the sound of the lift to go before he moved across the room, reaching out his hand and blindly feeling for the bed.

He kept his eyes on the opposite wall as he slid his fingers across Johns form to find his partners palm and he pressed his own towards it, linking their hands and taking slow hesitant breaths.

His lovers palm was warm, his fingers lax and Sherlock relaxed only a little. John was alive. He let out a sigh as he let go and quickly walked away not trusting himself to resist joining his lover in the bed, feeling his heartbeat in his own chest.

He was quiet in the car on the way to the owners house, Lestrade making a few attempts to start a conversation but Sherlock simply glared out of the other window trying (And failing.) to put the feel of Johns palm and the bitter metallic taste of blood out of his mind.

They pulled up outside a large Victorian house, gravel driveway and clinging ivy indicating someone still very much stuck in the past. The vehicle wasn't at the address and Sherlock got out of the car to stride up to the front door, ringing the bell incessantly.

He wanted in and he wanted in right now.

Lestrade trod up next to him and sighed, hands in pockets, awkward. He clearly wanted to say something about John, about Sherlock not offending people by blurting out their secrets in public, (It was hardly Sherlocks fault if they hid them so badly now was it.) or about the way he was staring out into the distant streets of London, his innate sense of direction meant that he was pointing to Regents park, to the hill from the night before and he almost snarled at the anger, the bitter resentment he felt for everything right now.

The door swung open revealing a man in his late 50s possibly early 60s, he had curly grey hair and a scruffy beard, a face that didn't match the well tailored suit and opulent decor of the house.

"Can I help you?"

"I wish to speak with a Mr. Travers? "

"What is this about?"

"I am a police officer sir and his car has been involved in a number of incidents."

Lestrade was using his best authoritative voice and the man's eyes flickered between them, pausing on Sherlock for a moment. (Long enough for Sherlock to think that maybe he saw past the cool hard expression and saw the seething broiling rage beneath.)

"Alright, follow me."

They were told to wait outside a set of double doors on the second floor and Sherlock didn't take his eyes off them as he perched on the edge of a rather chintz sofa. Was the man responsible for John's condition in there? Was he about to end this whole thing? It didn't seem likely, after all surely someone brazen enough to attempt to murder them so many times would be smart enough to use an unmarked car or the least one that couldn't be traced back to him.

"He will see you now."

The doors were open and behind the curly haired man, back in the darkened room was a bed and the distinct sounds of a heart rate monitor. Sherlocks heart sank. It was too good to be true.

He got to his feet and strode past the man at the door causing him to yelp in surprise and move to grab him, to block him, but a voice from the bed stopped the action.

"Leave him Charles."

Charles let Sherlock go and crossed the room to slump angrily in a chair at the bedside glancing from the man that lay there to the intruders in his home.

"You never use your car then."

Sherlock looked down at the man. He was around the same age as Charles and had white hair that stuck straight up front his skull in a buzzcut of sorts, a upturned nose and ruddy cheeks _he_ looked very much at home here. But his skin was pale and his breathing hoarse and when he struggled to sit up Charles lifted him by the armpits up the pillows almost on instinct alone.

Dammit. This was not the well turned heel that haunted him.

"No not these days."

"But you will again." Charles butted in and fixed Phillip with a fierce glare.

"Yes, perhaps."

Sherlock sighed and turned away; glancing around the room (His heart wasn't in it. His mind hungered for the puzzle but it was distracted by a hopefully imagined tang of blood and the strange tightness to his breathing Sherlock was experiencing.).

He was all but ready to leave when Lestrade piped up. "So nobody here uses your car Mr. Travers?"

"Well, I am stuck here and Charles no longer holds a license so nobody _here_, although...maybe Frankie took her out for a spin?"

Sherlock span round and lunged for the bed, his hands gripping the sheets as he leant close to the elderly man. (Oddly the man did not flinch, perhaps ex-military or police.)

"Frankie? Who is Frankie?"

"A boy that helps around the house and sometimes comes to visit me. Although...I haven't seen him in a while now."

"You just let some strange boy go driving about London in your car!"

"Oh no, I have a tracer on the car, everywhere it has been is logged on a computer. If he steals it or tries to sell it I would know."

Sherlocks mind began to move at an increasing pace until the voice in his head was nothing but white noise because if they had the cars locations then maybe...maybe they would find the man. They had a one up on him. Sherlock got to his feet and attempted to hide his shaking hands as he turned to Charles, ignoring the odd panicked look on Lestrade's face.

"We need those records."

Sherlock flew out of that house and down the steps, the papers clutched in his hands. He had a lead, a _solid_ lead. His heart hammered in his chest as he flung himself into Lestrade's car, and when the DI finally joined him he leant forwards in his seat, expecting the car to start. Expecting action, but Lestrade just **sat** there, staring at him. So he waited...and waited...

"What! What is it!"

The DI hesitated for a second before pulling out his phone and checking something, a text...orders. He nodded to himself and looked up at the detective, his face carefully neutral as he reached out a hand, fingers outstretched towards the other man. "Sherlock, you have to give me the papers."

"No absolutely not."

"And you have to go to the appointment..."

Sherlock froze. Shit shit shit shit. Mycroft had told Lestrade about the therapist? Shit shit shit and double shit.

"No I don't."

Lestrade was quiet for a moment before he leant forwards and started the car, not looking the detective's way just acting as though everything was normal. Sherlock stared out at the street, hoping he was being driven to one of the cars locations but knowing deep down that Mycroft had given the DI the location of the doctor's practice and that this was where they were going.

"Sherlock..."

Lestrades voice wavered slightly as if he was unsure whether to laugh or cry and Sherlock turned to him, following his eye line to the plaque on the wall of the offices.

**Dr. Barrows, Dr. Henson, Psychiatry services.**

The detective got out of the car instantly and headed for the entrance, if only to escape Lestrade's questions. The last thing he needed was for the fact he was seeing a therapist to become common knowledge, after all it was bad enough Mycroft knew about it. (Although, as soon as he saw Lestrade checking his phone he knew Mycroft had found out it was instantaneous. He had always very good at keeping tabs on his younger sibling.)

Unfortunately the DI followed him, sprinting across the pavement to stand near him, eyes wide, opening and closing his mouth. "Sherlock..."

"Lestrade. Not a word of this to anyone."

"Yeah but...I mean...Who? _How_..."

"John asked me too."

Lestrade shut up. His entire face seemed to shut down and he gritted his teeth. "I'll just wait in the car..."

Sherlock frowned. He had been expecting more humiliation than that, more questions. But the DI was now patting him on the arm and turning away so he let it go, he certainly didn't want to press the matter. Turning at the last second he saw Dr. Barrows waiting for him, pleasant wide smile and pipe already puffing away as the doctor gestured for Sherlock to go straight into his office.

He hesitated for a moment but conceded and followed the man into the room, placing himself in the largest most comfortable armchair that now sat across the heavy walnut desk from an elegant classic wooden writing chair. He glanced around; the doctor had made a definitive change to the tone of the room. What was once clear glass and bare white walls was now cluttered with plants and books and pictures hung on every wall along with diplomas and an impressive collection of renaissance era art. Sherlock sniffed, so the decor had significantly improved, that did not mean he wanted to be here.

"So..."

His voice was loud in the closed off room and Sherlock almost winced. He felt oddly empty, the adrenaline that had began to pull him through after the shock had begun to fail him was now all but gone and his skin felt dry, pulled tight over his skull as he tried to think. It was not the clinical emptiness of yester year, the analytical clean cut thoughts of his life before he met John. Before the emotions became more important than he ever though they would, before he found himself engaged, and long before he found himself worrying about anything other than where he could get his next fix.

It was so much worse.

He didn't reply and Barrows sighed dropping into the chair across the desk, messing with the drawers and pulling out a thick leather bound notebook and a expensive pen. "Okay, so today I was finishing early and on my way out of the office a charming young man approaches me and informs me I still have one appointment...That there have been some very recent very...unsettling events and that perhaps you would like to talk about them."

"My brother has kept you here for no reason. There is nothing I want to talk about."

"Really?"

There was a long pregnant pause and Sherlock glanced down at the notebook, the edges of a handwritten note exposed as the pages bulged, prone to return to their fellow pages at the base as the overly stiff spine slowly pulled them over.

"Well how about you tell me about that ring?"

Sherlock instantly slid his hand into his jacket, hiding his hand in his armpit, thumb rubbing over the smooth form almost protecting it from the therapists prying eyes. That was his, and right now the thought of someone else prying into the moment he and John had shared made his head throb and so he turned to look away. Barrows waited for a few moments before sighing and leaning on his desk, fingers clasped together as he leant on his elbows, eyes boring into Sherlocks face.

"Look, Sherlock I am here to help you, to listen to you. Anything that is said in here stays in here. You have to learn to talk to me before I can help you with the nightmares."

Sherlock did wince this time, the image of those eyes flashing in his mind and he cursed inwardly because Barrows eyebrow twitched a fraction. He had seen that. "You've had another one."

"..."

"Sherlock, let me make you an offer. You are allowed to deduce anything you want about me but in return you have to talk to me and you have to be honest."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow; he seemed to be using the detectives name an awful lot. A strange technique designed to make the situation feel less formal, to make him feel more comfortable. It wasn't working. "And how will you stop me telling you my deductions?"

"I can't, but I what I can do is I won't tell you if you are right."

Sherlock frowned. But that was the best part of his skills, finding the answer and knowing he had it right, knowing he was right. He was beginning to dislike doctor Barrows. "John is in hospital."

"I see, and this makes you feel..."

"Nothing."

He felt his heart rate pick up; after all he didn't know if this was normal. He didn't feel worried he didn't feel scared he felt...neutral.

"Aha, I see. Do you mind me asking how serious it is?"

"He was stabbed."

"I am sorry to hear that."

"I can't look at him."

Barrows was quiet for moment and he scribbled something down in his notebook. Sherlock wriggled in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his arms. He didn't like that he couldn't read the man's incomprehensible writing upside down. He couldn't see what he had written. He wanted to know.

"Is it because you fear that he will be angry at you for causing his injury or because you are angry at him for being injured and putting you in this situation?"

He thought about it for a moment and discarded both suggestions. "Because he won't look like John."

"Mmm... John has been hospitalised before?"

"Yes."

"And the image of him from that situation still haunts you."

Sherlock finally looked at the man, frowning at him. He still felt empty but now his skin was heating and he knew he was blushing. He, the great Sherlock Holmes haunted by the mere_ image_ of John incapacitated but then... it was an image of a man, of **that** man which haunted his nightmares. He shuddered and Barrows leant back, considering his next move.

"Okay, what can you tell about me right now?"

He hesitated for a second, the sudden change in Barrows slow careful considered speech to a friendlier cheerful voice was disconcerting and he carefully regarded the man and the room around him.

"Alex contacted you. A handwritten letter."

He reached over the desk, tugged on the thin hidden drawer and pulled out a folded sheet of standard issue military note paper.

"Remarkable, and correct. How did you know?"

Barrows plucked the note from Sherlocks hand and flipped it open, his eyes softening slightly as they scanned the page before he slid it back into its drawer and closed it with a soft thump.

"You keep touching the desk when you are thinking meaning whatever is in there is always in the back of your mind. It was obviously something personal otherwise why keep it in the hidden drawer? Therefore probably a personal letter or manuscript of some sort and then there is your notebook a handwritten message on the inner lip in handwriting not matching your own. It was a gift, a gift from someone who knew you don't use a computer, someone who knows the affection you have for pen and paper and the appreciation you would have for a letter written in such a way. As to who it was, well, when you mentioned that you were leaving you looked at this picture."

Sherlock got up and crossed the room, pointing at a picture of a group of people in a bar. Barrows was on the far left, his hair cropped close to his skull, face more youthful and his eyes were alight with a drunken haze grinning up at the person taking the photo, his arm slung around a slim brown haired woman. Barrows got up from his chair and walked around to stand just behind Sherlock, peering in at the photo with a small smile on his face.

"Then tell me, which one is Alex?"

Sherlock snorted. Too easy. "Alex was taking the photo. Obvious."

He turned away and strutted back to his seat leaving Barrows to stare at the photo for a moment longer. "Sherlock, feeling nothing is normal. You have a lot of conflicting emotions right now and it is common for a person to become so overloaded that they switch off. You just got engaged and you have barely enough time to enjoy the new development before your fiancée is injured and your feet are swept from underneath you, you are no longer in control. Adding these emotions to your poor sleep schedule, nightmares and the stress of your daily life you have a hell of a lot on your plate. Feeling nothing is your minds way of protecting you."

Sherlock sniffed. That seemed...logical. Perhaps this doctor Barrows knew more than he originally assumed.

The doctor walked calmly across the room and sat down, keeping his eyes on Sherlock for a few seconds. "You have a complicated, dangerous life Sherlock. Talking to the people around you, talking to your friends and family will _really_ help you with your nightmares. No man is an island."

The detective scoffed and Barrows tilted his head. He had an odd way of catching him off guard slipping from Sherlock being in charge, from Sherlock doing what he did bet to being probed for answers and thoughts and _feelings_. It was strikingly effective. He felt less...awkward about telling him what he wanted to know.

"So, tell me about the latest nightmare."

He crossed his arms and glanced out of the window at the thick snow. He really wanted to be back at the hospital. (Odd, whilst he was there he couldn't ignore the...situation and yet even that was better than talking about his nightmares. About those eyes.)

"John was dead and he...wasn't John."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He...he looked like...like..."

"It's okay Sherlock. You can tell me."

"Like an old enemy of mine."

"This enemy, he frightens you?"

"No."

Barrows simply raised an eyebrow and Sherlock scowled. He wasn't frightened he was _unnerved_. At most.

"The enemy, he isn't a threat anymore?"

"No...He shouldn't be."

"Shouldn't?"

"Someone has been trying to kill me and John and-"

Barrows interrupted him. "Ah so you think that this enemy may be the one after you?"

"It's possible."

"And this person never frightened you before?"

"Yes."

"But they do now?"

Sherlock sighed and looked up at the ceiling giving the tiniest of nods with his head and he heard the doctor messing with something on his desk. He looked back down to see Barrows holding a thin red notebook out to him. "I want you to keep a dream diary to bring to our sessions."

Sherlock glared at him but the doctor simply waggled the book at him until he snatched it from his hand. "It is perfectly reasonable to be afraid of this man now. Before you met John you had never been in a meaningful romantic relationship had you?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Well **everything** is more frightening when you have something to lose."

Sherlock twitched his lips and slid the notebook into his pocket. He got to his feet and so did Barrows, walking him to the door. (Careful to maintain a distance between them at all times.)

"Okay, well I am glad you chose to talk to me Sherlock. Trust me, I can help you."

Sherlock frowned; this man was all over the place. "You told me I don't have to trust you; you said I'm on a ledge."

Barrows just laughed and shook his head, turning away to leave Sherlock alone in the waiting room.

The car ride was odd. He sat in silence (Again.) as the older man glanced at him constantly, clearly curious, clearly trying not to appear so. Sherlock wondered if that perhaps the DI thought that mentioning the doctor's appointment was somehow in bad taste since his fiancée was in the hospital and he was bound to be upset by this. Whatever the reason he was glad. He didn't feel like answering anymore questions today.

When they arrived back at the hospital Lestrade attempted to take the thick sheaths of paper from Sherlock, trying to sneak his hand into the detective pocket to retrieve them without his knowledge. It didn't work; Sherlock wheeled around and gripped the DI's wrist. Lestrade frowned and titled his head towards the floor for a second. "No, you are not taking them up there with you. John needs you to concentrate on him right now, not the case."

Sherlock yanked Lestrade hand from his pocket and pushed him away. "John would want the man responsible locked up."

"I can't let you have them; they are part of official police business. You need to forget the case for just a little while; you have a partner now you can't just go running off across London and leave him here. Alone."

"You are not taking these papers."

"Sherlock-"

"**No**."

Lestrade seemed to consider it for a moment. "Tell you what; if I can get a copy of them and return the original to you within the hour will you promise not to leave John behind?"

Sherlock didn't say anything and Lestrade seemed to take this as a yes because he reached into Sherlocks pocket and took the papers from him, sliding them into his own pockets before looking back up. "Give John my best."

Again he said nothing and the DI seemed to deflate a little before he turned and walked away. Sherlock waited for him to disappear before he turned and walked to Johns room, his mind still focussed on that list. Sherlock kept his head down, fast stepped urgent walk through the twisting halls of the hospital, expertly weaving his way between patients and doctors until he reached Johns corridor and he couldn't help himself any longer, breaking into a sprint he rushed to the door and took a deep breath.

He looked.

John was still unconscious but his skin was slightly pink and his face relaxed. Sherlock froze on the spot. He didn't know what to do. He thought back to that morning and tilted his head to slowly creep over to the bed as though a single footstep would disturb his sleeping lover. He reached out a hand and touched Johns face, his skin was warm, his eyelids flickering as he dreamt. (He wondered if John was just dreaming or if he too still suffered nightmares.) The detective took only a moment to consider his next action before he was kicking off his shoes and removing his jacket to pull the sheets up. He clambered into the bed, tucking himself against Johns side and reaching out to place his hand over his heart feeling the steady thump beneath his fingertips.

He smiled. John was going to be okay.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Oh my god, thank you everyone for the reviews! Please tell me what you think! A bit quicker with this one and I hope to keep that up.**

Sherlock awoke to the sound of expensive heels on lino and a swish-thump-swish-thump of an umbrella coming down the hall. He sniffed and slowly extracted himself from the bed, his feet touching the floor just as Mycroft slunk into view. His brothers only indication he had seen him at all was the slight raising of his left eyebrow and a dip to his head as he entered the room. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and fixed his older sibling with a glare.

He had no reason to be here.

Mycroft finally looked away from the bed (And the all too obvious evidence of Sherlocks previous position.) and into the eyes of the detective, something strange flashing behind his almost pitying gaze. Sherlock snarled, he didn't want pity and he especially didn't want it from _Mycroft_.

"You surprise me Sherlock." He didn't reply, he just turned to face the bed, dropping himself into the bedside chair.

His brother **pitied** him. He thought Sherlock was **pathetic**.

"When I heard you were seeing a therapist I...well let's just say I was certain some sort of joke was being played on me."

"What do you _want_ Mycroft?"

He knew what he wanted; he wanted to be left alone with John and for the doctor to be awake so he didn't have to listen to Mycroft's petty concern, so he didn't have to stay here with this hole in his chest.

"What I want Sherlock is to congratulate you. It is a humbling move to admit you need help, something I didn't think you capable of."

"I didn't want to, don't want to."

"Then why go?"

"I promised John."

This time the shock was evident on his brothers' face, mouth forming an o-shape as his eyebrows reached for his hairline. "Oh I see, and you intend to _keep_ this promise?"

Sherlock just tilted his head, his eyes flickering to Johns face and back for a moment. (Ignoring of course how offensive it was his brother was so surprised that he would keep a promise.) It was true, he **had** promised John and that was why he agreed to go but...it wasn't the reason he stayed in that room and it wasn't the reason he was honest with Barrows.

It was John's face, a single tear streaking down his face and the_ fear_, the fear so alive in his eyes as he tried to rouse Sherlock from his nightmares. He couldn't get the image out of his head, it made his throat stick with acid and his stomach turn and so he _had_ to get better, he _had_ to stop the nightmares.

"Yes, is that such a surprise?"

Mycroft didn't speak he simply smirked and turned to look down at John. "Has he woken yet?"

"No."

"Hmm, he was put on rather heavy pain medication, I suspect he will be out for it for a while... Although it does look like his dressing needs changing. I will call a nurse." Mycroft turned sharply on his heel and glided out of the room. Sherlock blinked, well that was strange. Why was his brother suddenly so concerned with Johns care? That was Sherlocks job. He considered it for a moment and concluded there was probably some sort of initiation John had passed and perhaps that meant Mycroft already considered him family. An odd thought but one that felt good. (Not something he would mention to anyone. Not even John.)

He waited for the sound of his brothers shoes to fade before he reaching for Johns hand, lifting it up into the air to grip his finger tight and feel the weight of Johns own ring digging into his flesh, enough to mark Sherlock skin. It was oddly comforting so he kept their hands joined right up until the nurse bustled into view, dropping his lovers palm and crossing his arms. The nurse didn't even look at him, intent on dealing with the doctors wound. She pulled the sheets back and rolled Johns top up, Mycroft pushing a trolley with a small basin, a cloth and clean dressings on it up beside her. He then took a step away and walked around the bed to Sherlocks side, placing his hand on the top wing of the chair. For one horrifying moment the younger man thought he was going to touch him but the elder Holmes brother simply left his hand there as they watched the nurse peel back the old dressing revealing a mass of purple bruising and a jagged cut, crusted slightly with blood and sewn with thick black stitching.

Sherlock knew John had received stitches both inside and outside the wound and although the appearance of the injury was not a shock (After all he had seen injuries much much worse than that.) it still made his mouth taste bitter and his stomach lurch and so he looked back up to John's face instead. The doctor didn't flinch, his eyelids fluttering as he dreamt, face so relaxed. The nurse wiped his wound carefully, reapplying the soft white pad over the top and taping it firmly to his skin. She packed away her things and glanced up.

"He should wake up soon, the doctor will visit later to talk to you about his condition."

"Thank you Marjorie."

"Mr Holmes." She smiled at him and wheeled her cart out of the door. Mycroft stayed where he was, looking down at John. "I have organised a new guard for you. His name is Johnson."

"I don't want a new guard."

"Well you must have a guard Sherlock, you know that if you don't-"

"You will drug me and keep me locked up in your bloody house. Yes Mycroft, I know."

"Well then, Johnson will be here soon and-"

"I told you I don't want a new guard. I want Becker back."

He sighed and looked down at him; Sherlock leant back in the chair to make eye contact. (Really, his brother did get needlessly protective at the slightest hint of trouble. It was as irritating as it was disconcerting to see concern and worry in his brothers eyes.)

"I have already made it perfectly clear to the commander that I do not want him replaced."

"Sherlock he failed in his duty to protect-"

"I don't care. It's Becker or nobody."

Mycroft seemed to consider it for a moment before letting a long breath out of his nose and pulling out his phone. He dialled the number whilst looking at his brother, holding the phone to his ear as Sherlock glared up at him. "Johnson I regret to inform you that you will not be needed." There was an answering voice barely audible to Sherlock but even from his distance away he could hear the relief in the soldier's voice. He snorted, after all he was well aware what a difficult job it was to protect him, and he always did try his best to make it as..._uncomfortable_ as possible. "Yes I would like to talk to Becker. Thank you."

Sherlock looked back to John; at least he still had some control over his life. He could still make his own decisions, and he could still force them on his brother...and Lestrade it seemed. Only now he saw that the papers were on the side table to his left, unnoticed due to his brother's arrival. Sherlock smirked.

"Commander. My brother wishes you to continue your previous duties...Yes please come to the hospital. Thank you." He hung up and moved away, gliding towards the door. "The commander is on his way. I trust I can leave you alone for a few minutes whilst he travels here only...I am a _very_ busy man." Sherlock didn't reply and Mycroft seemed to take this as agreement because he sniffed, picking his umbrella up from where he had leant it by the door waving a regal hand as he disappeared from view.

"I do not think this is what Mr. Holmes meant when he told me to keep you out of trouble."

"I get in more trouble when my work is kept from me and this is important. Turn left."

Becker sighed and turned his eyes back to the road. He had been remarkably easy to order around since he returned to John's room. They had been there for less than ten minutes when Sherlock had him agreeing to drive to the different locations on his list if Sherlock would let Becker decided whether or not they approached a place based on Sherlocks deductions and his own perception of the threat level. It was an irritating detail but it did mean he was able to at least see the places the car had been, to build up a proper image of the man responsible.

As they drove from place to place he was getting more and more frustrated, they were going to shops and offices again and again and not one of them made a spark in his mind, not one was anything outside of a fucking household chore. That was until the 13th location on the list, another unassuming office block except this one was different. As they pulled up Sherlock groaned, fearing yet another ten minutes sat outside watching ordinary people doing ordinary things when he saw a man.

A man in a tightly fitted black suit with a well turned heel and slick hair just visible under a stiff hat. Sherlock tensed and Becker instantly pulled a gun from his waistband, glancing from the detective to the office windows.

"What is it?"

"That man...that _man_."

He was frozen in place as the man leant over the desk to talk to the receptionist, gesturing with his hand before nodding his head and turning rigidly, awkward limping as he walked back towards the lifts in the corner, turning just as the doors closed on him, his face hidden from view as his face was leant downwards but Sherlock could see form here that the man had significant damage to his leg and had suffered injuries to his hands as well. He watched the lights; the man was going to the sixth floor.

The man was... it _could_ have been...he wasn't sure and he threaded his hand through his hair before reaching for the door handle.

"Moriarty."

Becker frowned as Sherlock jumped from the car and darted across the street, the commander catching up to him easily as they both attempted to appear less desperate (Or in Beckers case, confused.) by walking slower and putting their hands into their pockets. The receptionist glanced up and smiled widely at Becker, flicking her hair and licking her lips.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, my friend here is lost mind helping him out?"

Becker opened his mouth to argue but Sherlock was already heading for the stairs, leaving the blushing commander to stammer out that he was trying to find Waterloo tube station as the receptionist rounded on him from behind the desk.

He pounded up the stairs, barging past men and woman who barely gave him a glance, continuing with drinking their coffee and talking amongst themselves as though a six foot detective wasn't bearing down on them from the stairs below. The floors seem to pass by too slowly and he watched the numbers grow and grow his heart pounding in his chest as it tightened and he tried to breathe, tried to think about breathing but his legs were on autopilot and his mind couldn't concentrate on anything but the ticking clock in his head.

He finally made it to the sixth floor, his head swimming. He hadn't eaten in a while and his blood sugar was likely to be low. A cold sweat broke out on his face and Sherlock wiped his hand across his cheek and swore. He knew what would happen but he couldn't stop, he couldn't let him get away.

Sherlock cursed his mortal body but pushed on, his eyes searching and searching for the man but as he sprinted through offices and whirled around corners his vision began to wobble and his head began to hurt and he knew it was going to happen but he was at the end of a corridor and the man was there and so he pushed harder trying to force himself to run faster before he passed out but the man was too far away and not matter how hard he pushed he couldn't run any faster and the rising pressure in his head was too much and the world went black.

He opened his eyes, his throbbing head and cursed. The small group of office workers now grouped around him on the floor simply sniffed, looking bored. "Sir, you shouldn't be up here."

A particularly snooty man in a tight grey short sleeved shirt, white pants and pointed grey shoes leant down towards him. He sniffed and made a disgusted face as thought Sherlock stank. "Didn't you hear me? We don't have any money to give you so this fainting lady impression won't work."

Sherlock frowned and propped himself up on his elbows so his face was very close to the other mans. He just stared back blithely and the detective glanced back down the corridor. "Who was that man?"

"What man?"

"At the end of the corridor, the one with the limp."

The man rolled his eyes and got up, flicking imagined dirt from his starched shirt shoulder. "I don't know who you are talking about."

The other people snorted and walked away from him, just as Becker skidded into view jogging over to where the detective lay seething and quickly sliding his gun back into its holster whilst simultaneously batting Sherlocks hand away from his ankle knife. He waved a hand at the people, one of them pointing to his gun. "Is he yours?"

"Yes, if you will excuse us."

Becker bent down and bodily lifted Sherlock from the floor, the detective murmuring into his ear, his fingers tight on Becker's bicep as the commander stopped him from dashing back down the corridor. "What are you doing! Go after him!"

"No. Its better we leave now and come back when you've had something to eat."

"He will be gone."

It seemed that the solider simply didn't understand what was at stake.

"Did he see you?"

"No."

"Then he won't know we were here."

"Those people will tell him."

Becker shook his head and began to half walk half drag Sherlock to the stairs. The detective tried to fight him but his head was still thumping and his legs felt weak so instead he just clung to the man until they reached the empty stairwell. "Listen to me, I know those people. I have met enough of them in my line of work to know that they probably wouldn't even think to mention it if you had dropped dead in the middle of the floor."

Sherlock groaned and ran a hand through his hair. "You had better hope so."

Becker sighed and turned on the spot, checking their points of exit before turning back to give the detective a once over. "When did you last eat?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. He couldn't remember.

Becker had taken him back to Baker Street, rifling through their kitchen as Sherlock showered and changed. The detective found the commander peering into one of his specimen jars, tapping the side and watching the yellow liquid inside slosh back and forth, jiggling the dog foetus inside. He seemed fascinated and Sherlock considered for a moment whether John was pleased that now found his various experiments and collections 'normal' or whether it was unnerving to him. Ah yes, John.

"Are you taking me back to John now?"

"Ah no, I thought we should make sure you get something to eat first."

Ah it seemed the 'feed Sherlock' baton had been passed on again. "Fine."

The commander placed the jar on the counter and smiled gesturing for Sherlock to lead him out. He just wanted to go back to the office and find that man and_ know_. The commander chose a burger bar a few streets away from the flat, ordering for the detective as Sherlock didn't even look up from his phone.

He was checking for texts from John.

He knew the doctor was probably still sleeping but the hole in his stomach didn't seem to be going away and he was beginning to get desperate.

The burger stuck in his throat and he swallowed hard, glancing up to see Becker take an enormous bite chewing with an almost orgasmic roll of his eyes. He seemed to swallow the entire meal within mere minutes and sat staring out across the brightly lit bar with a wistful expression. Sherlock forced down his own burger, nibbling at the chips in the full knowledge that he would not be allowed to leave until he had finished it all. (It was after all, standard protocol.)

"Your partner is back."

Becker swivelled his head back, his eyes wide and Sherlock smirked. "How did you know that?"

"Your hair commander."

"What about it?"

"You are using product."

"So..."

"You wouldn't think to buy it for yourself, but your partner, she would."

Becker's eyebrow twitched and he grinned, glancing to the left before making eye contact. "Danny just came back from a long..._long_ work placement."

Sherlock merely hummed, he didn't really care. As long as he was right, that was all that mattered (Of course he knew there was something he was missing, but there always was.)

The commander waited in the hospital lobby to talk to the men guarding John as Sherlock powered onwards, his energy returning after finally having eaten. He moved swiftly around other patients and visitors and doctors, side stepping and spinning to avoid running straight into them and once again turning into John's corridor he heard a familiar voice. A voice that sent a spark right down his spine and he broke into a breakneck run, flying down the cold lino hall and bursting into the room.

His veins thrummed with energy and his heart was so loud it almost drowned all other noise. All but his own voice as he all but shouted in sheer excitement. "_John_!"

The doctor turned to face him and it was almost in slow motion, the smooth pale skin of his neck pulled taut and then relaxing as he turned his head, tongue darting out and slowly sweeping across velvet lips, lips that pulled back into a gentle wide smile and his eyes, his _eyes_ in a slow blink of fluttering soft lashes brushing across his cheeks before revealing his bright brown eyes, laughter lines crinkling as he smiled.

"_Sherlock_."

The detectives stomach dropped an he rushed across the room, reaching for John as the doctor mirrored him almost desperately and he grasped his lovers palm between his hands, squeezing tight enough to bruise his own skin with Johns ring and he felt his legs go from under him as he collapsed into the chair. John was here and John was awake. He was still smiling, still incandescent and glowing and beautiful.

He was still _John._

In his excitement he hadn't noticed the other man in the room, John's glance to the doorway finally dragging Sherlock's eyes from his lover's face. Mycroft was sneering, a thump of his umbrella on the floor and he sniffed adopting a slightly concerned look.(It appeared his single mindedness when it came to John was more powerful than he thought and in that moment he couldn't have told you the colour of the curtains let alone that Mycroft was also in the room.)

"Where have you been Sherlock?"

"I was at the flat, taking a shower."

"For all this time?"

"Yes."

"Oh, really. So you weren't driving halfway across London following a list of locations where your attacker had been too in the hopes of confronting that very same man?"

Sherlock froze and glanced at John who was frowning now, his eyebrows knotted in disappointment.

"No."

"You are a terrible liar little brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn't miss John using his other hand to wipe over his face as he shook his head. He had the look of a man who had seen this too many times before.

"Really Sherlock, why can't you settle down like Mycroft? Get a normal Job."

His head snapped back up and he looked into the far corner by the window, at the location of the new voice, utterly surprised to see Mummy perched on a plastic chair making it look to all the world her very own throne, purple daubed blue dress that covered her like layers of cobwebs and a floppy hat dipping down over her severe makeup she lifted her chin regally and gestured towards John with a elegant finger.

"After all, look what your silly games have done to dear John."

He felt his cheeks flush but John squeezed his hand and suddenly he didn't feel so bad about it. (Although he found himself sitting up straighter now his mothers' presence was known.) "John doesn't mind, do you?"

John smiled pleasantly at Mummy and shook his head. "No, not at all." Good man.

Sherlock watched his mother carefully and something flashed in her eyes before she rose to her feet, hovering across the floor to place a ghostly hand on Mycrofts shoulder. "Come along Mycroft dear, as a newly engaged couple I am sure John and Sherlock would enjoy some time alone."

Mycroft nodded and thumped his umbrella one more time, raising a hand to duck his head slightly at John. "Doctor. _Sherlock_."

The detective waited for his family to leave before he let go of Johns hand and began untying his shoes.

"What are you doing?"

He didn't answer he just removed his jacket and trotted around to the other side of the bed, lifting the covers as John shuffled over. Once in the sheets he reached down again to clasp Johns' hand and lay back against the pillows, keeping his eyes fixed to Johns face and his lips and his eyes as thought he would puff out of existence if the detective so much as blinked and he smiled. Finally, he was back where he belonged and John was awake.

He was squeezing back and leaning towards him slightly and finally, _finally_ the hole in his stomach seemed to lessen, knots untying themselves as the pain in his chest weakened. John was still smiling at him and he leant forwards the detective instantly coming to meet his lips in a surprisingly chaste kiss before John pulled away and titled his head, his stiff movement betraying the pain he was still in.

"Have you eaten?"


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Oh my god guys. Thank you all so much for the reviews! This took a tiny bit longer than expected but I hope it makes up for it (: Please read and review!**

As he walked he knew it was getting late and that he should return so he swiftly changed his tack, darting back across the darkening streets and passing just under the dim light of a streetlamp. The sky was a dark inky blue and it bathed the streets in an ethereal royal blue glow that made the black cabs glisten and people faces to loom like ghosts from the bitterly cold gloom. Sherlock sniffed and thrust his hands into his pockets picking up the pace and turning into a slightly less deserted street. The people didn't look up as he wove between them and their numbers seemed to increase exponentially along the route. Sherlock glanced up from the floor his eyes catching on the back of a head.

A stiff hat, slick black hair and that well turned heel.

His heart rate picked up and he began to run, almost reaching the man several times but no matter how fast he ran the people would get in his way, crowd growing tighter around him and he screamed out to stop the man but his voice did not work and the only sound was his own panicked breathing and the man stopped at the end of the road, pausing and turning slowly in the orange glow, lifting his face so the shadow from his hat hid most of his face and yet his eyes, his _eyes_ were lit like a film noir scene and they were twinkling with well remembered malice and Sherlock froze fear gripping his chest as he looked around, the crowd stopping as one and slowly lifting their faces.

The faces of woman or children or men all with the same eyes, all staring boring into his skin and he panted in terror at those liquid hateful eyes and he couldn't move but they were advancing on him and he had nothing left to do but to scream.

He woke with a start and lay breathing heavily for a few seconds, not wanting to open his eyes. Had he woken John? He didn't want to look to find out so he waited and waited but John didn't speak and didn't move so he sat up, ignoring the uncomfortable sheen of cold sweat and the way his clothes stuck to him. The doctor was sleeping on his back, one arm across his chest the other almost cupping his own hip as he softly snored. (An unusual position for him, John often slept on his left side. Perhaps this change in pattern was caused by his injury.)

Sherlock looked down at him and smiled, he was struck by the extreme differences in the day to day living and emotional aspects of his life now and in the time before John. It was..._strange_ to imagine a life without the doctor, to not have him there to take note to listen to what was said and be impressed by it, to clean up around him and worry about him and kiss him and love him. He had been a purely work focussed creature and although he had found it difficult it appeared he had in fact found at least a small place in his mind purely for John. He understood love now, not just as a motivator but as a paralytic, a drug, a force by which men could be simultaneously made and broken.

The detective sighed and shuffled down the bed a little, letting his feet seek out the floor as he glanced out of the window. The sky was just becoming light again, silhouettes of pigeons and herring gulls littered the pink sky and his breath ghosted in front of him as he took a sharp breath from the shock of the ice cold floor. He lifted himself from the bed and stood rolling his shoulders and yawning, movement behind him.

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock didn't look at him; he didn't want the doctor to see him lying. He could always tell. "Just to the bathroom."

(He had been intending to walk the streets for a while and if he found himself back at that office block then well, so be it.) Suddenly large rough palms on his hips and John just held him there, fingers curled around the front, glancing over his hipbones and strong thick thumbs rubbed circles in the skin of his back. He wouldn't have moved for the world. "Come back to bed."

Sherlock titled his head and turned back to the bed, lifting the sheets to slide in next to his fiancée without a word.

"And don't lie to me."

Witch craft. He should never have looked at him.

John closed his eyes again and Sherlock waited for him to speak but he didn't. So the detective rolled onto his side and looked at him, taking in the striking shadows that spread across his lovers face from the window and the full pulse of his lips, hair tousled and sticking up in places and his tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip before sweeping back inside his mouth and Sherlock was struck by an idea. Perhaps there were other things he could be doing other than staking out that office block.

He scooted himself sideway s a little and lifted a hand to drag it slowly over Johns ribs through his thin tee, careful to keep his touch delicate but enough to make sure it was felt. He then reached up and nosed the base of his lovers' neck, kissing him softly at the join between his shoulders and the smooth skin, a trial of pecking and licking reaching up to John's ear and along the length of his jaw. His hand now slid slowly over his partners' chest and to his nipple, rubbing slowly in a circular motion as Sherlock nibbled on the corner of John's mouth before his tongue reached out and swept across the doctors plump bottom lip, quickly followed by Sherlocks teeth as he caught the flesh between them and sucked.

Johns' eyes flew open and he looked a little dazed but still slightly angry. The detective began to move back along his jaw allowing the doctor to speak. "Sherlock, no...I really want to but I can't...my stitches."

Sherlock just nodded as he licked the shell of John's ear, lifting a leg to pull Johns' hips closer and he thought of the last night they had shared before the attack. His memory of it picture perfect at first but fading to sense memory of the taste of Johns mouth and the slick slide of his skin and the rough possessive grip of his hands and he smirked. He knew just what to do. He moved his hand a little lower and bit the shell of Johns' ear causing the doctor to take a sharp intake of breath just as Sherlock leant in and whispered hoarsely to him.

"Please John. I'm _begging_ you."

John openly moaned and relented, turning his head to grasp Sherlocks mouth in a ferocious kiss, all tongue and teeth that sent sparks down his spine.

"Oh my god! I'm sorry!" Sherlock felt his heart sink as they broke apart and he looked to the doorway to see the unmistakable hand of Becker waving around the corner. "Uh, Mrs Holmes sent me..."

Sherlock groaned under his breath and lent his head against John's shoulder as the doctor glared at the doorway. It appeared John would get his wish after all.

He had left John reluctantly, the doctor insisting he went ahead and that he still had paperwork to finish getting himself released as well as a check up. Becker was careful to be out of the room as Sherlock kissed John goodbye, turning to leave only to be physically spun around by the doctor's hands and pulled into a tight hug. His arms were strong and warm and Sherlock gently put his own arms around the shorter man, remembering their very first hug and how surprised he had been at the warmth and comfort it provided. He also remembered John's reaction and sniffed, wondering just what had surprised him.

"Do you remember the first I hugged you?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You seemed surprised. I was just wondering what was so odd about it?"

"There wasn't really anything odd about it I just...wasn't expecting you to be so...tactile about it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well to be fair I didn't expect you to even ask so that in itself was a shock but when you actually did it...I was trying to be respectful, making sure I wasn't holding you too tight or anything because you made it seem like it was your first hug ever and I didn't want to scare you off or something.-"

"Scare me? I'm not an easily spooked rabbit John."

The doctor simply laughed. "Yeah well, you are when it comes to emotional stuff. So anyway, when you grabbed onto me like that and pulled me closer I was surprised you were letting me so close and I ..."

"And you liked the idea of that."

John blushed and rolled his eyes as Sherlock smirked at the doctor. Well, that certainly explained his reaction.

"Go on get out. Before your head gets any bigger."

The detective lifted a hand as goodbye before he walked out of the door, Becker instantly trotting along beside him. The commander was grinning, making sure to look away and Sherlock frowned not looking at him as he spoke. "What is so funny?"

"Nothing, it's just that when I told the guys that I got the job following you around they all told me it would be horrible and that you are a nightmare and a...a monster."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He had no doubt the commander wasn't lying although he wasn't sure why he had paused like that on the word monster. "An accurate summation of your expected experience."

"Yeah well... but you're not so bad really. You're not a monster."

Sherlock paused for the merest second, probably unnoticed by Becker but a lifetime to him. He knew John didn't think his monstrous because John loved him but the idea that somebody else didn't see him as the monster he almost certainly was...well it was startling. He was beginning to like this Becker.

They arrived at Baker Street (It was easier to secure than the hotel Mummy insisted on staying in whilst in London apparently.) to find Mummy sat in the living room, elegantly perched in Johns chair, opposite her sat Mrs. Hudson gesturing with her tea cup and smiling as she spoke. "I don't know why they tried to hide it at first, like I said we get all sorts around here."

Sherlock closed the door behind himself causing both women to turn and look at him, Mummy merely raising an eyebrow as Mrs Hudson beamed up at him. "We didn't Mrs Hudson, it simply hadn't happened yet." She got up from her seat and crossed the room reaching towards the taller man with a wide honest smile on her pleasant face.

"Sherlock dear, I'm glad you're home. How is John?"

"He is well; he wants to come home today."

She hugged him briefly and let go pottering back towards the kitchen. "I'll just put the kettle on." Sherlock nodded her way and removed his coat, hanging it up before he placed himself on the sofa. He didn't want to be here with Mummy, he wanted to be back at the hospital with his tongue in John's ear. He narrowed his eyes and didn't speak.

"Sherlock I am disappointed to discover your engagement through outside sources."

"I didn't have a chance! The day af-"

"Silence. I will not hear your excuses."

Sherlock clamped his lips shut and sat on his hands to avoid them balling up. A familiar sense of righteous anger spread through his chest as his mother began a speech on how important it is that she is told about such a landmark moment in her son's life and now she had left for the country she could not be expected to just know these things. Mrs Hudson reappeared and pressed a warm mug into his hands, it was John's regimental mug. He looked down at it, the slight chip in the rim from John dropping it as he unpacked his things on that first day at the flat. He had stared at it for a while before putting it in the cupboard, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. Sherlock sighed blinking his eyes to force himself to listen to her spiel and Mummy clapped her hands together. His head snapped up and Sherlock looked at her.

She was glaring at him; hands loosely clasped together in front her face in a less rigid imitation of his own thinking stance. "Now, the wedding."

Sherlocks blood ran cold. He didn't know how to go about these things and he was certain Mummy would want every detail discussed and decided upon right now and he wasn't sure that what he chose would be what John wanted. (Frankly he didn't care what happened at the wedding as long as they **did** get married. He didn't understand the immense planning and detail people put into these things.) "Obviously Mr. Forrest will be needed for your suits and the hall will be used, always nice to have a wedding in the country. However almost every other detail must be planned..."

"We weren't planning on having the actual wedding for a while yet."

Johns voice in the doorway and Sherlocks face broke into a wide grin, the doctor was walking stiffly, Becker appearing the door behind him obviously having gone back to pick the doctor up whilst Sherlock had been listening to Mummy's rant. "John!" His lover smiled back at him and crossed the room to place two fingers under the detectives chin, lifting his face so he didn't have to lean too far to press a dry peck on his lips before he awkwardly removed his coat and slung it on the back of the sofa. Sherlock watched him carefully for any signs of pain but John hid it well, plopping himself down to the detectives left, and giving him a tired smile as the mug of tea was pressed into his hands.

John hadn't had any of Mrs. Hudson's finest for quite some time. The doctor took a long draught and handed it back bumping his shoulder against Sherlock as he looked away. (He felt the warm rush of affection in his gut but made sure to maintain his outwardly cold expression in front of Mummy. Judging by Johns muted greeting he probably wouldn't have liked Sherlock jumping him right there and then.)

"Surely it would be the sooner the better doctor?"

Mummy's voice had that dangerous tone to it but yet again John was impervious to her authority and simply sniffed fixing her with a stern gaze. "There is no rush; I would like to enjoy the planning process and simply being with Sherlock for a while. Not to mention my family will need much more prior warning to make sure they aren't working on the day and everything."

Sherlock smirked but hid it behind his mug. Ah finally, John was back in control. Their respective duties were equally shared in their relationship, John in charge of emotions Sherlock in charge of his work. Perfect.

"Oh, I see." Mummy continued to look at John with the same calculated look Mycroft had picked up when he was impressed with John...or surprised. Sherlock stomach turned when he thought of that day at the hospital with Bossley and Johns face after he had pulled the IV. The light behind his eyes gone for a mere moment. John glanced sideways and twitched an eyebrow at Sherlock who returned the gesture, taking a long draught of his tea as the doctor got to his feet again.

"Well, if you will excuse me I'd like to go for a shower." John waved at Mrs. Hudson who wiggled her fingers at him and he left the room, leaving Sherlock at Mummy's mercy once more.

"This doctor of yours rather spirited isn't he?"

He had never felt so proud.

He didn't answer instead simply standing and leaving the room, trotting past Becker at the door to go upstairs and walk unannounced into the bathroom. "John?" There was a surprised gasp from behind the curtain and Johns face appeared around the edge, his face a mixture of confusion and relief.

"What's wrong?"

"You left me with her." He was pouting and he knew it. John raised an eyebrow and disappeared again.

"You are a grown man Sherlock, you shouldn't still be afraid of your parents."

He hesitated for a moment. He wasn't afraid he just hated having to sit there being asked questions and being looked at when all he wanted was to work on the cases piling up in his email inbox without Mummy sat criticising in the corner. He felt anger flash through him and couldn't stop his own indignant response.

"What about you and your parents? You still haven't told them anything about me."

Silence from behind the curtain. Sherlock cursed inwardly, he had gone too far. Blast. He hesitated for a moment before making sure the door was jammed shut and stripping, pulling back the curtain to join his lover quickly. The doctor was turned away, the water cascading down the back of his neck as he stood arms to his sides' eyes boring into the floor. Sherlock sighed and reached for him sliding his hands around the doctor's waist and pulling him to his chest.

"I apologise John. I had no right to comment."

John was rigid in his arms but relaxed at these words, leaning his head back to rest on Sherlocks shoulder, eyes finding his. "No, you were right. I love you and I am not ashamed of that. If I am going to get married then they will know about it, whether or not they actually turn up is their own decision. It will still be the happiest day of my life."

Sherlock smiled and kissed his on the cheek. John lifted his hands to grip Sherlock's where they rested on his waist and looked down at the scar on his shoulder and then to the wound still healing on his stomach. He hummed under his breath and Sherlock watched him trial a finger over the new wound, sighing as his hand dropped. He reached his own hand down and slowly followed the trail too, watching Johns muscles clench as his fingers slid smoothly over his skin.

"I'm barely held together huh."

Sherlock smirked into Johns shoulder and pulled him tighter. Clearly John was somewhat self conscious about this new scar. He hoped he could do the right thing but yet again he was forced to take a wild guess. "I think scars are sexy."

John chuckled and shook his head and Sherlock spun him around to press a wet kiss to the corner of his mouth. The doctor's face had lost all the sadness of his tone and he was smiling again. Miraculously he had yet again managed to say the right thing. Marvellous.

"Oh yeah? Why is that?"

He thought about it, eyes trailing over Johns figure and then back to his eyes. "Because they are yours."

The doctor blushed deeply and shook his head, burying his face into Sherlocks neck. "What did I say about telling me things like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like ridiculously romantic things as though you don't know what you are saying."

Sherlock shrugged. He had no idea what John was on about.

Mummy insisted they went out for their meal that night and so Sherlock was made to sit in a loud poorly lit restaurant just watching Mummy, Becker, Mrs. Hudson and John chat amongst themselves. The only bright point was John's quiet back up when Sherlock said he didn't want anything to eat, simply sipping at a glass of water and stealing rice from the doctors plate. The doctor's stern gaze stopped any objections and so he was left alone. (He was so very thankful to have the doctor back.) That night when they returned to Baker Street Becker said his goodbyes as his replacement guard arrived and Sherlock and John went straight to bed, Sherlock collapsing onto the sheets and closing his eyes. For once, exhausted, and he thought perhaps tonight he would not have a nightmare; perhaps tonight he would be better.

The doctor sat on the edge of the bed and carefully lowered himself backwards, leaning on his elbows to look down at his lover. He twitched his lips and tilted his head. "How have the nightmares been?"

Sherlock paused, Barrows had told him to be more honest with John about the nightmares and although it made him feel hot all over and he really couldn't look at the doctor as he spoke he decided he would tell him. (Well, at least _some_ of it. He wouldn't mention the eyes.) "Okay. Not as bad..."

John smiled warmly and lay down next to Sherlock, both men now staring at the ceiling. "Well, I'm here so..."

Sherlock nodded and reached out, turning the lamp off. John sighed and shuffled around, pulling the quilt over the both of them and Sherlock hesitated for a second before reaching down and grasping John's hand. He was glad to have him back but he hated having to restrain himself. All he wanted right now was to wrap himself around the doctor and hold him tightly, tight enough that he would be surrounded by Johns scent and by the feel of skin enough to wipe his mind blank enough that he could think, that he could concentrate.

He waited for a while, listening to the doctor's breathing slow and deepen until he was snoring softly, deep in his sleep. Sherlock let go of his hand and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Yes he was exhausted, but that didn't mean he wanted to have a nightmare and end up with Mummy bursting in on their room because he was screaming in the night.

Their room was special. Nobody else was allowed in here, especially not her.

Sherlock sighed and got to his feet, he was still fully dressed and he leant against the window frame looking out to see the snow had stopped falling, instead ice had begun to form a thin cover over the thick layers on the roof opposite and he sighed again, turning to take one last look at his lover before trotting out of the room and down the stairs, the living room empty but for the quiet humming of the guard on duty in the hall.

His feet were bare and his toes curled against the cold floor as he padded across to John's chair, sitting himself in it to think. His skin felt tight and dry pulled over his skull, legs stiff as he shifted around trying to get comfortable. The dry prickle of his tired eyes so familiar. Sherlock thought for a moment of Barrows, of what he had talked about and the dream diary. He reached out and pushed around the stacks of papers and books and plates that were on the side table until he found it. The thin notebook. Perhaps noting down his nightmares would stop them revolving in his mind and would allow him some release. He scrabbled down the side of the chair for a pen and wrote out each one on a page of its own, frowning as he worked and when he was done he slid the notebook back onto the side unit and hid it by placing papers over the top. (He didn't want anyone coming across it and yet he was too tired, too achy to get up and hide it properly so this would have to suffice for now.)It was then he turned his mind back to the case, his thoughts less cluttered now his dreams were not subject to them.

If he couldn't sleep he could at least be useful.

It was a few more hours until John pottered downstairs, again bending awkwardly to press a kiss to Sherlocks forehead, ruffling his hair as he yawned and padded into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He came back after a few minute and placed a mug next to Sherlock, fixing him with a careful stare from Sherlocks chair. "Didn't sleep then?"

He shook his head. He didn't feel like talking right now. He had thought everything through in the night and had come to a definitive conclusion, one he was sure John didn't want to hear. He sighed and Sherlock looked back up to him. The doctor seemed to consider something for a moment before he leant forwards in the chair and stared right into Sherlock's eyes, only speaking after a moment and using the voice. "Okay, I want you to tell me what happened after I was attacked. I don't want any lies, I don't want you to try protecting me, keeping **any** information or theory to yourself or anything like that. You know what these mean?"

He reached out and lifted Sherlocks hand, holding it in a way that highlighted the matching bands, cold dawn light bouncing off and making them glint. Sherlock looked back up to John. "I have to be honest. Always."

"Exactly. So, what happened?"

"After you were stabbed I told Lestrade the license plate number..."

He explained everything in as much detail as possible, finishing with his main theories, everything he knew about who was trying to kill them except the name. He didn't tell John who he thought was behind this because the time after the bomb, for months afterwards they lived under constant unmentioned threat of Moriartys return. His body hadn't been found in the rubble, and Sherlock knew. He _knew_ he had escaped and although they never ever talked about what had happened he knew that John had also figured it out.

The doctor was quiet for a few minutes, frowning into his mug before looking up. "Sherlock, you do realise who this could be..."

He didn't say anything, he just finished off his drink and placed it on the side unit, climbing out of Johns chair and crossing the room to lie of the sofa, fingers digging into his forehead. Of course he did.

"The man in the suit, the limp...he survived the bomb we know that and he probably sustained injuries and...It's Moriarty isn't it?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded his head. He needed to think so badly right now. John was quiet again and Sherlock opened his eyes, turning his head to watch the doctor set his mug down, straighten his shoulders and take a deep breath. "Right, okay. So if he is back then we have work to do."

Sherlocks eyebrow twitched and John's eyes found him again. "I'll just get my notebook and we can see what leads we have."

Sherlock grinned, **work** with _John_ no less. He felt a thrill of excitement spark up his spine and suddenly he wasn't tired anymore, his mind practically screaming for this. To work through the details and to watch John note it down in his precise neat handwriting as he solved the puzzle. The doctor got to his feet and disappeared from view for a second, retuning with the expensive leather bound notebook Sherlock had given him, setting himself down at the desk and pulling back the cover and writing across the first page. Sherlock felt a warm pulse in his stomach at the image. John was using his gift, the very first gift he had ever given him. (He was proud of himself after all. He had managed to negotiate the troubled waters of 'gift giving' after years of failed attempts and disinterest. He understood why people did it now. Sort of, anyway.)

They had been theorising for almost an hour before Lestrade burst through the door, closely followed by Becker. "Sherlock! John!"

The doctor turned in his seat and Sherlock glanced up from his experiment. He had decided that working on several cases at once always helped his mind work more effectively as when he was concentrating on one case his mind would always be working on another. The DI glanced between them both and turned to John, gesturing apologetically. "I'd love this to be a social visit but I've got someone in custody who you might want to talk to..."

"This is to do with Moriarty isn't it?"

Lestrade sighed and blinked up at the detective. He was just coming around the corner to see John sliding a coat on gingerly, hand going for the drawer to pull out his revolver whilst Lestrade was distracted. ""Yes, at least I think it is. There's been a botched robbery, a guard was killed and a Daniel Ker was found trying to leave the gallery through a fire exit just as the police arrived. I think he is one of Moriarty's agents, this robbery is just one in a series and they have his name written all over them so..."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his familiar cold indifference now spiked with anger. He had kept this from him?

"You have been keeping this from me?"

"Yeah well, I wasn't sure and you've kind of had a lot to deal with recently." He was using a sarcastic tone, frowning a little and vaguely gesturing to John as he spoke. A heady rush of anger made Sherlock's vision swim and he pointed violently at the DI.

"Spare me your petty concern detective-"

"**Sherlock.** Just take us there will you?" John had interrupted just as Sherlock was starting to get really angry. Lestrade had no right to interfere with his work, Moriarty was_ his_ case _his_ puzzle.

His white whale.

The doctor was standing stiffly, hands buried in his pockets and when Sherlock made eye contact his eyelid fluttered a little. John was just as angry as he was. (It made him fell a little calmer, after all. Now he knew what could Lestrade do to stop him taking the case? Nothing.)

Their arrival at the police station caused a little stir as Becker insisted on going on ahead and checking every person they came across. He was somewhat hyper vigilant but it didn't bother the detective; his mind was entirely focussed on the interview room door as he stored on ahead. His skin began to tingle as he reached the room, glancing back in time to see John give him a tight smile and a nod. He was allowed in. (Not that it would've stopped him if he wasn't.)

The room was bare white walls and dark green lino flooring, the kind with a slight glittery sheen to them often found in primary school 'wet areas'. Above a single metal table bolted to the floor hung a grey lampshade and a slightly too bright bulb. Two metal chairs on one side of the table and one on the other, a man slumped almost bored in it. He had along face with a side swept fringe of his don draper style haircut hanging over his eyes and a large nose that dominated his face. He seemed cocky, relaxed, with his legs opened wide, arms crossed, quick eyes fixing on Sherlock and then John as the doctor followed him into the room, a sly smirk crossing his features as the detective leant against the wall and John sat himself down across the table.

They were all silent for a while as Sherlock looked carefully at the man. Well dressed in a grey pinstripe shirt, dark grey tie and black suit that fitted him perfectly, his eyes those of a man who had seen it all before, the thin imprint of a necklace visible just below his collar, indicating he wore dog tags. A solider then, or ex soldier judging by the floppy hair cut and slight stubble and... on his neck Sherlock spotted the faded green lines of a tattoo...initials. SM. So he wasn't who he said he was. He was much too confident for him to be in any danger, he had clearly been across this table before because his eye flickered momentarily to the hidden camera in the corner. He was not an amateur; he wouldn't have left a trace. Lestrade was going to have to let him go. Sherlock didn't have much time.

"Your boss is going to be very happy is he?" Sherlock leant forwards, and the man chuckled. Odd, so he wasn't frightened of Moriarty then.

"Oh yeah, why is that?"

"Well, a murder during what should have been a run-of-the-mill robbery tut tut, makes things messy."

The man scoffed and looked at John raising his eyebrows at him before looking back to Sherlock. "I wasn't involved in any robbery, innocent bystander." He held his palms up to the sky and smirked at the camera, "Heard that? Innocent."

Sherlock put his fingertips together and leant back in his chair rolling his eyes. This man was insufferable. "So, you must be quite high up in your little hierarchy not to be frightened Daniel...or whatever is your real name."

"It's Daniel Ker, Danny to my mates and you would be right about that." He leant forwards on his elbows and titled his head up to stare at the detective, all smugness wiped form his face. He wanted Sherlock to be frightened, to be _awed_ by him. Pathetic.

"Oh really? And I suppose you think he cares what happens to you?"

He just lifted his chin and smiled, smugly, but with no light behind his eyes. Very strange, this man really did believe that Moriarty cared about him. Naive. "Nobody is close to Moriarty. You are either very naive or very stupid to think otherwise."

"And _nobody_ is close to Sherlock Homes...well nobody _was_..." He was smugly looking over the detectives shoulder and John sighed in the corner, titling his head and giving the man an unimpressed glance.

The man gestured to himself as he spoke, his voice deep and languid, bored even and he scratched at his neck revealing his tattoos. Sherlock reached out and pulled his collar down, the man not even flinching. "Hmmm SM, is it Sam? Shaun? Sebastian?"

The man's eyes flickered to the left for a mere moment and Sherlock knew he had him, releasing his collar and sitting himself back in his chair with a satisfied grin. "Sebastian, well, now we both know each other..."

Sebastian leant forwards, elbows on the table top, face directed towards Sherlock with the light causing his eyes to fall into shadow. He seemed to be measuring the detective up, eyes trailing over his face. Probably looking for signs of weakness or of fear. He wasn't going to find any, Sherlock smirked and Sebastian blinked rapidly for a second. Clearly a bit shocked his usual aloofness wasn't working on the detective.

"I suppose your boss told you about me."

"He did."

"I have a message for you to give him."

Sebastian raised his eyebrows and opened his arms indicating for the detective to continue. John had stopped leaning on the wall and took a step closer to them but didn't interrupt. Sherlock placed both palms on the table and leant in close to the man, whispering in his ear. "If he wants to kill me, he is going to have to do it himself. He is going to have to get his hands **dirty**."

The door opened and Lestrade stood with a defeated slump to his shoulders, glancing in at the scene before speaking. "Mr Ker, you are free to go. You can collect your belongings from the front desk on your way out."

Sebastian pushed his chair away from Sherlock and swaggered to the door, smirking at Lestrade as he brushed past him in the doorway before strutting off.

"Lestrade, you need to get a trace on that man and his name isn't Daniel Ker, its Sebastian."

"Sebastian? Sebastian who?"

"I don't know."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Dear 'An interested reader' I am hoping you did catch up to this story as I just read your review of a habit and you didn't log in so I couldn't reply that way so I'm doing it here. Concerning 1) That was the point, the habit was his being kidnapped. It was supposed to happen at an irregular rate. And 2) they weren't in a hospital they were in a house owned by Radish and Sherlock mentioned that he had passed out and I thought I had made it clear John was wearing a walking cast and so would be able to drag the, let's face it featherweight, Sherlock out of the house. Hope that helped (:**

**Also thank you everyone for the reviews and the support! I'm sorry I have been struck with such terrible writers block recently but I'm working past it. I hate to beg and I hate long authors notes but I am going to be shameless so please please review and keep me going!**

He woke early two days later, his lips were dry and when he opened his mouth to take a breath his throat stung, choking him, making him wheeze and he swung his legs over the edge of the sofa to rasp in the cold morning air. After a few minutes his coughing calmed and Sherlock got to his feet, stretching his arms and twisting his body to crack his back. His limbs were heavy with long overdue sleep, almost 4 hours spent in a single position on his leather sofa; just enough for the ache to dull and the nausea of sleep deprivation to be lifted. The sky was a dull grey, a soft sprinkling of rain was just beginning to fall and the snow across the street had all but gone leaving thin white puddles slipping and sliding down off the roof onto the unsuspecting heads of pedestrians far below.

He hadn't dreamt. He knew that, after all that time spent forcing his eyes open, forcing himself to stay awake he had not dreamt for 4 blissful hours. Sherlock smirked and scratched his chest through his thin white shirt as he kicked his way through the piles of papers, files, books and photographs that had accumulated around him as he lay on that sofa and thought. John had come and gone periodically, making sure Sherlock ate, making sure he had drunk something but otherwise not intruding into his bubble. The perfect partner.

For a moment Sherlock considered climbing the stairs to their bedroom, crawling into the covers and making John wake up but instead he headed for the kitchen, grabbing his coat and slipping shoes on as he went. He checked his phone was in his pocket before slipping out of the back window on to the fire escape. He was the only one who knew that this window even opened and yet he made sure to keep it locked, keep it safe unless he needed it and when he left he always made sure the window was secured behind him. His very own escape tunnel. He slowly lowered himself to the floor and paused, checking that Becker had not heard the commotion out back and would not come across the detective. After all he would only insist on coming along.

The streets were mostly deserted (Probably due to the now thickening drizzle.) and Sherlock strode down back alleys, cutting across roads and through markets to avoid other people as much as possible. Their incessant chatter and heavy breathing and the wet clip-clop of their heels on the pavement were driving him mad and so he walked and walked until he was back at that office block, stood across the street. It was empty, obviously closed for that night, and Sherlock stood hands in his pockets just watching the front of the building, staring in at the wide empty lobby and the elevator where he had lost the man. Sherlock swore under his breath as the rain began to pour, lightening crackling in the dawn sky and he turned on his heel striding away from the building and to a nearby park.

That _man_, so close and yet so far. Sherlock had many enemies and yet he was certain it could have been,_ must_ have been Moriarty, after all anybody else would have already given up on using other people to try and kill him, they would have gotten frustrated, already taken matters into their own hands and yet this man had patience like nothing Sherlock had ever seen. He had stayed away and Moriartys words that fateful night at the pool echoed in his head again and again.

'**I don't like getting my hands dirty'**

It all seemed to add up neatly (If not a little too neatly.) and Sherlock sighed, glancing across the park to watch a group of early dog walkers soldiering on in the growing wind, cagoules buttoned up to their noses as their dogs rolled and jumped and fought in the mud, splattering their long suffering owners in their playfulness. He had no leads on Moriarty other than the office building and he knew that if the man was smart he wouldn't be back there for a while and that anybody who had managed to evade him so easily for so long was definitely very _very_ smart.

He continued to stare out at the lightening sky, barely visible above the dark thunderous clouds that rolled towards him. The oncoming storm. He laughed to himself.

"What's so funny?"

Sherlock twitched an eyebrow as John joined him on the bench, jacket pulled tightly around himself, umbrella held aloft.

"Not very safe that, an umbrella in a lightning storm."

John sniffed and shuffled a little bit, also staring out across the park at the rolling clouds. "To be honest the likelihood of the storm killing us before someone else does is pretty low. I'd rather take my chances with the weather."

Sherlock chuckled again and John turned to look at him. "You shouldn't leave like that. Becker is furious."

"He is not my mother."

"No but Mummy is."

His blood ran cold, Mummy knew he had escaped? Sherlock turned his head and saw John smirking, eyebrow raised. Oh, he was only joking. Thank god. The detective decided to change tack a little. "He was following me?"

"Since the office yeah, realised you were gone during his hourly checked and guessed where you would've gone."

"He woke you up?"

"No, I heard him swearing from upstairs and offered to come with. I didn't think you'd take kindly to Becker stopping you working."

Sherlock smiled. Yes, he was glad to have John. "I was thinking of our next step."

Johns smile brightened a little when he said 'our' and Sherlock looked away to fight the urge to grab him and kiss him brusquely. (After all, John was not a fan of big public displays of affection and jumping him in front of Becker was a big no no.) "Oh yeah?"

"You need to text Lestrade."

Sat in the back of Becker's car Sherlock was avoiding eye contact with the commander in the rear view mirror. John was right, he was not happy and so the detective had been bundled into the car and given a ten minute speech on why what he did was dangerous and how it was Beckers job to protect them and dammit his job was important to him and blah blah blah. Sherlock had gotten pretty angry at being treated like a child and when the commander had paused for a breath he simply raised an eyebrow coolly and murmured under his breath just enough that the other man could here.

"I take it your partner has disappeared again?"

Beckers anger had seemed to give way to a split second of defeated sadness before he seemed to struggle with calming himself down, finally turning away with a almost hurt expression on his face. He hadn't said a word since.

They pulled up outside the station and Sherlock moved to get out only to find the doors had been child locked. "I go first." Becker slipped from the driver's seat as John chuckled beside him and the detective narrowed his eyes. How dare they treat him like some infant. (In fact people seemed to be doing it a lot recently. He resigned that it should stop; after all he was infinitely wiser than all of them.) When he finally was allowed into the station, Lestrade was waiting for them. He was holding a thin manila folder and Sherlocks eyes connected with it, zeroing in until everything else was a blur because inside that file was all the known information about Sebastian and if Sherlocks theory was correct all he had to do was find the man and he would be one step ahead of Moriarty.

One step ahead of the game.

John was talking but it didn't seem to be words and Sherlock reached for DI's hands, wrenching the file from between his fingers before burying his head in the neatly typed (And disappointingly sparse.) information. He was absently aware of the other men moving away and followed blindly, trotting down corridors as he catalogued the information grasped between his fingers.

Sebastian Moran, an ex-soldier honourably discharged (Although Sherlock suspected there was more to this.) several medals for bravery, marksmanship and special commendations from several high ranking officials. Sherlock sniffed, a man like this would be extremely useful for na assassination. Sherlock glanced up to see the other three men staring at him, John with a familiar exasperated expression leaning a little closer to him.

"Lestrade was talking to you."

Sherlock looked to the DI and quirked an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I just told you we have a possible lead on this Moran character, a contact number he left with the service. It's a long shot but there might be a chance his old war buddy knows something..."

He had to hide a smile, eyes catching Becker's rolling eyes. Well, he had been told it was going to be a difficult job keeping them safe. His eyes returned to the DI and he lifted his chin. Time to use his authority. "I will talk to him. No police."

"No Sherlock, this is still a criminal case and-"

He got up and walked out of the door knowing full well that it would be the end of the argument. After all Lestrade was bound to submit to his natural authority, not to mention the fact that this was not just a police case anymore. This was personal.

Calling the number only got them an answer machine message stating that the war buddy was going to be at a theatre production all day. Sherlock hung up straight away and tapped Commander Becker on the shoulder. "Change of plan..."

They had entered through the stage door, Becker and John following close behind Sherlock as he strode to the stage area spying two men talking loudly and gesturing at the lights above the performance area. One of the men was tall, muscular and stocky, bald head with a mean glare he looked every inch the ex war veteran. "Ah that must be the man..." He murmured to John and the doctor glanced between the two men.

"Which one?"

"The taller one obviously."

John paused for a second just as Sherlock was about to speak. "No, I think it's the other one..."

Sherlock looked again; the second man was shorter with flaxen blonde hair, full lips and shining blue eyes. He was thinner, leaner than his companion and was wearing a black glittering dress and dark tights. Sherlock frowned and looked closer spotting the thinnest sliver of a tattoo on the man's arm, just visible beneath the shawl he had wrapped around him. Oh. (He deftly ignored John smug grin, turning his head away so he wouldn't have to look. Anyway it wasn't like he was embarrassed, he kept John around because he could see what Sherlock didn't... and he had only _glanced_ at the men, he couldn't be expected to notice something that had been hidden from view when he looked... or something.)

He considered what the correct approach would be and held up a hand to stop John and Becker from following him out of the wings, untying his scarf so it flapped around as he half ran half jogged across the stage, trying to hide his face a little and flittering his eyes nervously around. The men turned to look at him and the taller one crossed his arms raising an eyebrow as the shorter man turned one arm across his body holding his elbow as his finger dragged over his lips and he raised a sarcastic eyebrow.

"Uh mr...mr...mr oh god I..."

"What is it boy? Speak up!"

"The leading lady is stuck on her dressing room!"

The taller man rolled his eyes and began trotting past Sherlock muttering under his breath. "For god's sake, she could get stuck in a fucking empty field."

Sherlock leant down on his knees and panted slightly, the shorter mans eyes on him. "Well?"

He stood up and nervously made eye contact, scratching self consciously at is neck. "You used to be in the army didn't you..."

The man's eyebrow flickered and he tilted his head narrowing his eyes. "What is this?"

"I was just wondering if you had any...any old stories. I'm writing a play and I thought a actual real life hero's story would be useful..."

The man scoffed and lifted his chin proudly, preening. "Come and find me after the show. I have quite a few stories to tell you." He raised his eyebrow and glided off stage with a wink leaving Sherlock to return to his lover and the commander with a satisfied grin.

"Looks like we will be catching a show."

John certainly seemed to be enjoying the play and so did the commander, laughing at what Sherlock presumed were jokes and jumping in shock at perfectly obvious 'surprises' . In fact the two men seemed to be enjoying it a little too much, Becker dissolving into a giggling fit and leaning against Johns shoulder as they both seemed to be almost paralysed by their laughter. Sherlock frowned and reached out grabbing John's hand. (He didn't like being ignored after all.)

The doctor looked to him, tears in his eyes and raised an eyebrow but said nothing and Sherlock huffed, yanking his arm a little so Johns face was propelled towards him and he pressed a soft kiss to his fiancées lips pulling back and purposefully staring into his eyes, searching them for shame or embarrassment. John was frowning a little obviously confused but his cheeks were slightly flushed and he was still smiling so Sherlock concluded he was probably wrong about John having been flirting with Becker.

John didn't let go of his hand all the way through to the last scene of the first half and Sherlock tried to divert his attention back to the stage, to the man they had come here to talk to. Suddenly there was a small commotion in the curtain to the left of the stage, an almost inaudible clatter of metal on wood and he watched closely, the actors on stage seemed to panic, all eyes to the right for a second and he knew. Moran's friend hadn't made it on stage. One of the actors spoke the final line, stammering only slightly at the end and the curtains closed, John and Becker beginning to discuss the first half as Sherlock let go of the doctors hand, striding with determination down to the front and up onto the stage before they had a chance to register his movement.

He beat his way past the curtains into the wings and dropped onto his hands, chest brushing the floor as his eye searched under the nearby clothes racks and prop baskets and he spotted it, crawling across the floor to reach for it.

"What are you doing?"

Voices behind him but Sherlock didn't care because he pulled the sniper rifle from under the rack and held it in his hands, jumping to his feet and swinging around. Someone screamed and he pointed the gun at a nearby dummy, pulling the trigger. Huh, the gun had jammed. He dropped the weapon and turned on his heel, flying down corridors and around corners following the trail of people with papers scattered on the floor or grumbling under their breath at the rudeness of people until he reached the stage door and he burst out of it, gripping the doorframe as he watched that well turned heel lift up into the cab just as it pulled away.

He swore into the bitter cold air and turned around slamming the door behind himself. The detective made his way back to the wing area to find John helping Moran's friend to his feet and he could feel the ball of anger in his stomach and he couldn't' stop himself as he strode across the wooden boards to grab the man by the front of his costume, shaking him and pushing him up against the wall. "Where is he? Where is he going!"

The man let out a tiny whimper and Sherlock could vaguely hear John shouting something behind the pounding blood in his ears. "Sherlock! For god's sake put him down!"

He snarled under his breath and stared into the man's eyes. He seemed surprised, too surprised to be hiding something... perhaps he hadn't known about the attempt...perhaps he was not involved perhaps he was unimportant. Sherlock released the man watching him stumble and John grabbed him, steadying the blushing frightened man, his eyes darting from the frowning detective to Commander Becker and back. Becker put a hand on Sherlock should and pulled him back slightly murmuring in his ar.

"Whoever was back here knocked him out, that's why he couldn't deliver his line..."

The detective glanced back to the ex-soldier and sighed. He had a black eye and to their left was a fallen rack of clothing and crushed boxes. The sniper had clearly attacked Moran's friend to ensure he would be alone. Bugger.

"We weren't close, Moran wasn't close to anyone. Lone wolf type you know the sort."

"You still helped him though, didn't you..."

The man sighed and rolled his shoulders, using a tissue to wipe at the makeup on his face staring at Sherlock in the mirror. "How did you know?"

"There are no records for him, no financial papers at all since his return to Britain two years ago. Somebody must have helped him, fed him, housed him, and paid the bills."

The man looked to John; the doctor leaning up against the wall. John stared right back for a while in silence the two men sharing a silent conversation and the doctor lifted his chin as if he understood. "You weren't close _but_..."

"Look, I wouldn't consider the guy a friend but as cliché as it sounds he _was_ a brother, he saved my life just as much as I saved his and back there you make a bond."

"A bond you couldn't refuse. So you helped him when he came to London...how long did he stay with you?"

"At first I thought it was just the war...you know what it does to people...going out every night not returning for days , couldn't hold down a job but then... then those people started turning up at the flat and he put a bolt on the spare room door..."

"You confronted him."

"He was normally alright with me but he lost it, flipped out and we fought... he locked himself in his room and two hours later some flashy bastard in an expensive suit rolled up outside and they left together. Haven't seen hide nor hair of him since."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He was still hiding something; it was obvious by the nervous twitch of his fingers. The detective coughed and John looked up to him breaking his eye contact with the man. Sherlock twitched an eyebrow and the doctor licked his lips, eyes back on the man.

"How long ago was this?"

"Well that was almost a year ago now..."

Sherlock pushed away from where he had been leant and cocked one hip to the side tilting his head and using his best dominant voice. "Where is he now?"

"I don't know where he is."

Sherlock watched him mess with the wig he had been wearing. He was still lying. "That's not quite true is it..." The man blushed and his eyes flickered to the corner for a second before he looked down. Sherlock sighed and John glanced at him nodding and leaning forward, using that voice.

"There is something else isn't there...he sent you a message, you saw him in the street,** something**. What is it?"

The man blinked furiously at John and licked his lips nervously unable to look away from that demanding gaze. (Sherlock ignored the stab of jealousy deep in his gut. John was working; this was just the date with Claire all over again. That was all. Nothing to want to murder for...)

"Look I don't know where he is living but he did come see me last month, came to the play all dressed up with that man again. Brought me champagne but refused to stay for a drink."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and spun around striding across the room to pull at the cupboards, flinging the top one open he found it, the bottle was enormous, the label expensive. He grinned and yanked it from the cupboard, using his jacket sleeve to hold it in his hands. "Hey! What are you doing?"

"You didn't drink it?"

"I was saving it for the last night of the show!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and put the bottle on the unit, gesturing to John for rubber gloves. "We need to get this to Lestrade; Moriartys fingerprints could be on it."

"Sherlock we should try tracing the champagne, it looks pretty expensive and there can't be that many places that sell it..."

Sherlock grinned, finally they were getting ahead.

Lestrade had insisted that both John and Sherlock go home after seeing the state the detective was in, promising he would contact them the instant they got a whiff of Moran or anything on the lab results. Sherlock had tried to slip past the guards to get to the lab himself but Becker had wizened to his ways and had cut him off sneaking through the fire exit.

So now they were at home, Sherlock perched on his chair, fingers together as he focussed on the drizzle outside. He could feel his lack of sleep creeping up on him and only ate a small part of the meal John placed in front of him because he was sick of his eyes swimming and the dizziness wasn't helping him to stay on the chair. (He couldn't remember having suffered from any ill effects from his unusual diet or sleep schedule before John and yet now he would feel tired after a long and would feel weak and dizzy when he hadn't eaten for a few days. Then again, before John he didn't really notice anything other than his cases.)

John was sat up on his laptop, chuckling at things he read and clicking away quite happily. That is until his phone beeped and he read the text, shoulders slumping. "Bad news?" John lifted an eyebrow and shut the laptop screen, getting out of his chair to trot over and run his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"Harry is on her way around." He didn't comment and John sighed, lifting Sherlock's hand and examining the ring on his finger a small smile working its way onto his face. He waited but John didn't move and so he rolled his eyes tugging impatiently on Johns arms until the doctor leant down enough for him to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

"You do not want her to visit."

"Well no... the thing is Harry still doesn't know that we are engaged and she is as bad as you for knowing when something is up so it will be the first thing she notices."

"Is that a bad thing?" (He was honestly curious and still felt a weak stab of fear that John would be ashamed of him. Of telling his sister that they were engaged.)

"No not in itself, it's just...she is a bit of a control freak when it comes to planning things and-"

Sherlock had gotten bored of John's excuses as soon as he was reassured it was not shame that was the problem and instead stepped up from his chair, pressing his mouth to the doctors, careful not to push into him too much. The doctor let out a muffled yelp of surprise but allowed the contact, lazily sliding his hands up and down Sherlock's arms until he pulled back. John chuckled into his mouth as he was released and shook his head. "Fine I get it, I'm boring you." Sherlock smiled and his fingers smoothed down Johns front, feeling his stomach muscles jump as they brushed over his wound.

Sherlock twitched his lips and kept going until he could push John's sweater up and slip his hands inside, fingers dragging over the scar as he lifted the jumper up to watch their jagged tracing. John was staring at him with an odd expression and Sherlock kept moving his hand his mind absentmindedly coming across a thought that made his chest ache a tiny bit. "Does this hurt?"

John reached out and stopped Sherlock's hand moving but didn't force it away simply leaving his palm pressed against the slightly heated flesh; fingers encircling the detective wrist to keep the pressure of his palm even against the wound. "Yes, but not too much and not because of you." Sherlock sighed and looked up to John's face. It showed no sign of pain, no anger, no discomfort. Just calm considered love and trust and Sherlock forced himself to slow down as he reached out and pulled him in for a hug, pressing his face against the doctor's shoulders. He was comfortingly solid, damaged but not broken.

John sighed and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He was tired, so very tired and he leant heavily on the doctor inhaling his scent and breathing deeply. His mind was still running furiously and although his eyelids were heavy and his limbs were sluggish he could not stop the chattering of his brain. John rocked him slightly and began walking towards the leather sofa, Sherlock back stepping until his knees hit the edge and he fell down leaving John still standing and smiling softly down at him.

"You are exhausted. Try having a nap." Sherlock sighed and opened his mouth to argue but John simply crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "Sleep."

The voice sent a shudder down his spine and Sherlock thought perhaps he could distract himself with John after all he did look indecently sexy in that jumper... the doctor took a step back and shook his head as Sherlock reached for him. "No, I know what you are thinking and my sister will be on her way right now. I am not having her walking in on us forgetting the fact that with these stitches I couldn't do anything vigorous anyway."

"It doesn't have to be vigorous!"

John laughed a slight flush on his cheeks. "No, now go to sleep."

He turned away and Sherlock sighed flipping himself around to lie across the sofa, his eyes closed. Mortifyingly John returned a minute later with a ridiculous patchwork blanket which he threw over the taller man and tucked into his side, pressing a dry kiss to the detectives forehead. He lay in silence for what seemed like an age until he couldn't bear it anymore his eyelids flying open.

The lamp on the desk was on and it was dark outside. Sherlock frowned and sat up instantly noticing the man in John's chair. He didn't look at the detective, legs crossed hands flickering through the dream diary. The detective tried to fight the sheer terror filling his chest and turned in his seat glancing around the living room, looking for a sign any sign. He didn't find one.

"Where is John, what have you done with him?"

Moriarty didn't speak he just turned his face, eyes glinting in the dim lighting, teeth almost fang like as his wild grin split his handsome face in two. Sherlock frowned as he fought with the urge to run and gripped the seat tightly as an all too familiar giggle filtered through the doors to the kitchen and they rolled open with a snap revealing the face that haunted his nightmares, a gaze that he couldn't shut out and he couldn't move. Paralysed by his fear as Moriarty watched the man dance across the floor towards him, needle thrust outwards and Sherlock screamed.

He awoke with a start, snorting and gripping the sofa his nails digging in. "Looks like it's awake."

Sherlock tore his gaze from the light dappled ceiling to find Harry curled up in his chair, regimental mug gripped in her hands along with a soft affectionate smile. John was stood by the fireplace also smiling; it dimmed a little when he saw Sherlock's expression but the detective made sure to wipe his face returning it to his usual cool indifference. He sat up swinging his legs over and John twitched his eyebrows. A question. _Are you okay?_ Sherlock sniffed and glanced out of the window. John took a deep breath in acknowledgement and Sherlock looked back to see his back retreating towards the kitchen. Probably to make more tea. His sister looking at the detective oddly, almost as though she knew something he didn't. Ah of course.

"Harry, I see John told you about the engagement."

Harry's eyebrows shot towards the sky and Sherlock blinked. John appeared so suddenly it was almost as if he had teleported across the flat. "Engagement, _what_ engagement?"

Oh, perhaps what he had seen was actually John telling her about his wound. A minor infraction. She turned to John and placed her mug down on the side unit crossing her arms. Her tone smacked of the voice and Sherlock looked helplessly to the doctor who was blushing a little. John took a moment before crossing the room and sitting down next to his fiancée reaching out to put his hand on Sherlock's knee.

"I asked Sherlock to marry me, he said yes."

Harry lanced between them without saying a word and Johns fingers tightened for a brief moment before she let out a squeal and jumped to her feet, a wide grin breaking out on her face as she rushed across the room pulling both men into a impromptu (and slightly too tight.) hug. She let them go turning to Sherlock and grabbing his head to press a wet kiss to his forehead and then doing the same to John .

"Ahaa! I knew it! Oh this is brilliant! Congratulations!"

John smiled and glanced to Sherlock who simply raised both eyebrows and twitched his lips. It had gone better than the doctor expected.

Harry grabbed John by the arms and pulled him up from the sofa, hugging him close and shaking her head. "So have you set a date? Where are you having the ceremony? Can I be best woman?"

John laughed and moved her over to sit back down in Sherlock's chair sitting down across from her. "We haven't set a date yet, we are probably having it at Sherlock's mother's house and actually I was going to ask Lestrade..."

"Twinkle toes? Oh my god that is brilliant he so _so_ funny. He would have a way better speech anyway; I'm giving you away though right?"

Sherlock frowned and decided to speak up. He had researched marriage ceremonies and was somewhat confused at this request. "I thought it was tradition for the father or mother to give the person away?"

Both Watsons went silent and the smile dripped off of Harry's face. Oh wait...of course. John's parents.

"Sherlock we talked about this, they wouldn't want to be there."

Harry narrowed her eyes and there was a tense moment as she reached out and gripped her brother's hand, shaking it a little to force his gaze onto hers. "You don't need them to be there anyway, I have ten times as much right to give my brother away as they do." Her jaw jutted out and she lifted her head in an almost challenging manner. Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but John was giving him a stern look so instead he flipped his legs back up and lay down, eyes back on the ceiling.

His mind was reeling about the wedding, about his dream, about John.

It was obvious that the doctor desperately did want his parents to attend the wedding but he was never going to do anything about it. John wanted to enjoy the planning of the wedding he had said as much to Mummy, the last thing he would do would be to invite conflict by going through the process of confronting and inviting his parents.

He sniffed, well if the doctor wouldn't do what needed to be done then it was Sherlocks duty as his partner to do it for him.

Surely.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: I can only apologise for how long this took. It was the result of reading a truly beautiful fic and feeling extremely inadequate and then writers block took hold. I'm sorry D: but hopefully the truly enormous size of this chapter will make up for it! Please tell me when you think! R&R!**

He was careful not wake John as he slipped from the bed, slowly unwinding the doctor's arm from around his waist before sliding horizontally out of the bed to soundlessly land crouched on his feet. He stood and glanced out of the window, he hadn't slept again. His mind had been too busy focussing on both how they were supposed to find Moran and how he was going to get away unnoticed. He stretched his arms and tiptoed from the room, toes curling against the cold of the wooden floor as he made his way into the bathroom, showering quickly and returning to change in silence all the while forcing himself not to look at the doctor. He wasn't sure he could resist the urge to leap back in the bed with him if he did and so instead he turned sharply on his heel and swept from the room.

The night before his first order of business had been to find John's parents address, simple enough really he just checked the stack of letters, cards and notes John would receive in the mail and yet would never open or even acknowledge other than to stare blankly at them for a moment before sliding them into a drawer in the desk. Sherlock had never mentioned it so he suspected John had no idea he even knew. (Frankly he thought it was idiotic of the doctor not to guess, after all Sherlock noticed everything.) The detective had waited until John had offered the spare room to Harry and both Watson's had gone to bed, clearly believing him to be asleep. As soon as he was free to he got up and rushed to the desk, sliding a small stack of the letters out and carefully forcing a nail under the glue separating the envelope and sliding the note out. It was handwritten, useless updates about a cat of theirs and asking what he was doing in London, if he had found a job, why hadn't he written back in so long.

Sherlock had thought for a moment why John _would_ write back at all after the way they treated Harry and how clearly still affected John was by it. He looked back down resisting the urge to read through every single one of them but instead forced himself to concentrate on the return address noting it instantly and quickly sliding the letter back inside the paper casing, sealing it and leaving everything as it had been when he found it. Then he had affected a tried slump (Not difficult to fake, after all, underneath the buzz of his planning he was still fatigued.) and had trotted upstairs to crawl into bed with John, hiding his face so the doctor wouldn't see the light of excitement in his eyes.

After all it was supposed to be a surprise and he didn't want to ruin it.

The next step of course was to get away without arousing suspicion and for this he needed help.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Barrows?"

"..."

"It's Sherlock."

"Oh right...okay...Is.. Is there a problem? Mr Holmes? "

"I need to see you, today."

"Okay... do you need to see me right now or..."

"No, I will meet you at half ten in your office."

"Okay, okay I will see you then."

Sherlock hung up and smirked, ah perfect. He strode across the room flinging himself into Johns chair just as the doctor padded into sight, yawning and scratching his stomach. He blinked sleepily as he made his way into the kitchen. "Were you just talking to someone?"

Sherlock smirked but put on a defensive tone. "Yes." He wrapped his arms around his legs and buried his face into the fabric of the chair, careful to keep his back rigid as to give the impression he was trying to hide, like he didn't want John to ask. The doctors' warm hand landed on the back of Sherlock neck and he turned his face fighting to keep his expression blank. (But for entirely different reason than John would expect.) John stared into his eyes for a moment frowning a little before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead and shuffling backwards to sit in Sherlocks chair.

"What do you have planned for today?" (Oh if only he knew.)

Sherlock stayed silent and John licked his lips glancing up at the clock. "You didn't sleep again."

Again he said nothing.

"Look, I know it was Barrows. You _can_ tell me about it you know."

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something but instead looked away as if embarrassed. John sighed and Sherlock looked back up, staring a few moments as if considering what to say, he opened and closed his mouth a few times for good measure before mumbling under his breath, diverting his gaze as he spoke. "I am seeing him at half ten." John smiled warmly at him eyes lighting up a little but he caught himself, lifting his head and nodding a few times as if it was not important, as if Sherlock was silly to hide it.

"Okay good, that's okay. Becker can take you to your appointment and I can take Harry out to a show or something, she said she wanted to see more of the city."

Sherlock lifted his chin and John reacted to the click of the kettle in the kitchen with a jerk of his head before getting up and ruffling Sherlocks hair as he walked past. "Thank you for telling me." The detectives smirk dropped, he felt a stab of what could almost have been guilt deep in his gut and he didn't reply instead staring down at his ring. No, he was doing the right thing; this was going to be worth it because John would forgive him if Sherlock got his parents to accept him. Of course he would.

Becker was quiet in the car, glancing at Sherlock every few moments as if to check he hadn't simply thrown himself out of the window in a bid to escape. The detective staunchly stared out into the road and kept silent, the more it seemed he was in a strange mood and 'needed' to see Barrows the better. He made sure to hunch over as he got out of the car, nodding as Becker gestured for him to lead into the office and gazing resolutely at the floor when the receptionist spoke to him. It was difficult but no more than the personas he used to extract information from widows and murderers. Finally Barrows called his name and Sherlock left the small waiting room without looking back, glancing up at the doctor as he entered the room.

Barrows seemed concerned but hid it well under a mask of professionalism. As soon as the door closed Sherlock let out a breath of air and strode across the room, staring out of the windows to assess his best exit. "Sherlock...what are you doing?"

"You didn't honestly think I called you to _talk_ did you?"

He wasn't really talking to the man, merely voicing his disdain to the air around himself. Suddenly a large rough palm on his bicep and he was spun around, the doctors fingers holding him tight enough to stop him wrenching his arm free but not enough to hurt. His eyes were ablaze and he was frowning. "Sherlock. Sit down." He tugged but the doctor didn't release him and so Sherlock took a small side step back towards the desk and the chair and they walked in tandem, Barrows slowly placing Sherlock in the chair and carefully releasing him, eyebrows furrowed as he suspiciously considered the detective.

For a moment he was back at school, back in front of the assembly being outed as a bad child, as a skiver. The odd feeling of being on display as two hundred pairs of eyes bore into you, knowing that you had missed class, that you had broken the main rule and gone out of school bounds and that you were a bad student and a terrible boy. He had stood there, tiny hand clasped respectfully behind his back chin up, wide eyes blinking out at the boys who had always hated him, always noticed that there wasn't anything normal about Sherlock Holmes and the cool click in his mind as his eyes connected with the older Mycroft.

The treasure of the school, head boy, captain of the cricket team and apple of their mother's eye.

His eyes pitied and it was then Sherlock decided the last thing he ever wanted, the worst thing he could ever have to endure, was _**pity**_ from his brother.

"Why did you come here today?"

Well, there was no harm in being honest. "I needed a solid excuse to be alone for long enough that I could leave unnoticed."

"Unnoticed?"

"Yes, being under constant guard kind of makes it difficult for anything to be a surprise."

"A surprise? A surprise for who?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and Barrows leant against his desk, endlessly long legs crossed at the ankles, finger stroking his chin.

"For John."

"A surprise for John... What could that possibly be?"

"It's a wedding present."

"A wedding present."

It appeared Barrows had been replaced by a particularly large and upper class parrot. Sherlock decided to sit up properly, steeping his fingers and glancing around the office before fixing his gaze back on the doctor but didn't try to move from the chair. He had to pick his moment.

"Where are you going?"

"I am catching a train."

"Right... You have a guard for a reason Sherlock. Why don't you ask that surprisingly handsome man who follows you around everywhere to go with you? Why is it so important that you do this yourself?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. Really, this man was an idiot, so very like the doctors of Sherlocks past. Trying so hard to appear nonchalant as they attempted to force themselves to understand his mind, his thoughts, and most pathetically of all his motivations. It was pitiable really. "Because he would tell Mycroft where we had been and John would want to know and he _would_ know all about it before the surprise even happens. This way I can pretend to be working on a case and nobody would know until the wedding day."

"You think John would be pleased that you lied to him?"

Sherlock thought about it and he came to the same conclusion he had that morning. John would forgive him as soon as he saw his parents at their wedding, as soon as they saw how happy Sherlock had made him. "That is irrelevant."

"No it is not, and not to mention that your brother has already informed me that you are in a lot of danger, enough danger that wandering off on your own would be frankly idiotic."

Sherlock leant forwards in his chair fingers grasping the wooden arms as he fought to bite down on the indignant rage building in his chest. He couldn't look at Barrows so instead he glared at the floor. "Forget what Mycroft says. I kept myself alive without him before and I can do it again. The only reason I let him get so involved is because I can't keep John safe on my own, I'm dangerous to him and Mycroft lessens that if only by a small amount. Now if you will excuse me doctor I have a train to catch."

Sherlock got up from the chair and knocked past the doctor's elbow striding to the window, popping the latch and letting it spring open. There was a five foot drop to the pavement below and Sherlock quickly stepped up onto the windowsill glancing back at Barrows surprised face for a moment. He stared back, gaze slowly turning calculating and thoughtful. "If you would, please do not raise the alarm for a few minutes. The commander is considerably faster than would allow me a clean escape."

Barrows nodded only slightly and almost as if he hadn't realised he had done so and Sherlock grinned dropping out of the window and landing hard on the pavement below. He rolled over and sprang upwards barely noticing the flare of pain on his shins. They would probably bruise. He all but ran down the street, turning left at the corner and forming a weaving path, ducking into alleyways and hiding in groups of people to avoid Becker spotting him if the doctor did give him up too quickly.

Thankfully he reached the station unabated and arrived at the ticket desk panting heavily. He took a moment to take a deep breath before buying a ticket to Cholsey and trotting to the right platform with a minute to spare. He glanced around the wide open space and something or rather someone caught his eye, a woman sat on a bench nearby smiling warmly at him. Sherlock considered her out of the corner of his eyes for a second watching her gaze trial up and down his form for a few moments. After around ten seconds of hidden glances the man next to her looked up at her face and then at him and for fraction of a second his eyes betrayed a almost manic glee before he frowned and put his arm around her, making the woman turn back to him.

Sherlock turned back just as the train door pulled in front of him and decided exactly what he needed to do. He jumped on the train and walked through the carriages, weaving past old men, students and families with screaming children to the back of the train where, just before the doors closed, he leapt off onto the empty platform. He smirked and walked over to the ticket desk smiling warmly at the woman inside. She frowned at him and titled her head.

"Haven't you just bought a ticket?"

He glanced at the retreating carriages and grinned, a quirk of his eyebrow somehow unsettling the woman inside who clasped her hands together on the desk, glancing at the train and back with a suspicious light in her eyes.

"Missed the train." He bought another ticket and moved away from the woman's accusing stare, placing himself on the bench with a smug grin on his lips. They would probably be realising they had lost him right about...now. Idiots.

He had been on the train almost twenty minutes, slumped in the corner of a table seat with his head leant against the glass, eyes staring outwards. He was too excited to sleep and even if he did manage it, without his phone to wake him he knew he would sleep through his stop. They pulled into a barren station, and from Sherlocks position he couldn't see a single person on the platform his thoughts turning to why they had stopped there at all when three men appeared in the carriage doorway, smirking and laughing amongst themselves, glancing back to an extremely angry fourth man.

The tallest one turned around and his eyes roved the vacant seating, his gaze falling on Sherlock and he grinned leading his companions over to where the detective sat. They clumped themselves around him, the angry man still mumbling furiously to himself. Sherlock made a point of not looking at them, instead listening in on their conversation with his eyes closed. They seemed to be trying to convince the angry man that some sort of presentation had gone well and that his bad feelings and negativity were unfounded. It wasn't working, he just began groaning loudly to himself with his hands cupped over his face and they all decided as one to ignore him.

After twelve minutes of incessant chat the angry man mumbled that he was going to the toilet and left the carriage abruptly, the commotion caused by his movements' making the detective look round. The tallest man was at next to him, elbows leant on the table as he scrawled in a battered notebook. His clothes were modern but held the image of a man who very mush wished to come from Victorian times with his tight tailored waistcoat and suit. The two men sat across from them were dressed much more commonly, one with piercing blue eyes wore a simple blue shirt, rolled up to the elbows and was staring back him without a word. Sherlock looked away to the third man, slumped on the desk with his head propped up by his hands watching the first man writing, murmuring suggestions to him. His hair was frizzy, curling around the neckline of his simple black jumper and he spoke with a slow considered tone.

There was a crashing outside the carriage and all three men and the detective looked up to watch the fourth man, shorter than the rest and ten times angrier. He walked back to them extremely quickly with a confident strut showing off his well tailored trousers and the tightness of his black t-shirt. He joined them at the table and glanced around, eyes falling first on the third man and then following his gaze to Sherlock.

"Who are you?"

Sherlock frowned; he should be suspicious of everyone. He carefully checked them all, glancing at the notebook and the way they held themselves and sniffed. They were business men, or something very like it. "I'm Sherlock."

The man raised an eyebrow and the detective was then forced to shake the hand of every man at the table. "Where are you heading?"

"Cholsey."

The first man smiled warmly and leant towards him a little. "Us too, well to Cholsey and then to Wallingford actually."

Sherlock checked them again and lifted his chin, "What do four business men have to do in Wallingford?"

The first man grinned and they all smiled amongst themselves, the angry man seeming to brighten up exponentially. "We are writers, we all come from Wallingford and are going back there to write our new series."

The detective was then forced to listen to their new ideas; to the premise of the show and to what he had 'missed' the previous series. For some reason he group seemed to have decided that he was to continue travelling with them because as the train pulled into Cholsey his sleeve was tugged by the second man who was still talking and he was forced to walk with them to their car, a moment's hesitation going unnoticed by the men. They were too busy excitedly arguing over a certain plot point as he was pushed in to be squashed between the slow speaking man and the angry man in the back of the car.

Eventually they pulled into the car park of a pub in a small village that Sherlock assumed must be Wallingford. He could hear a river nearby and great oak trees lined the gravel expanse of the parking bay. It smelt like damp grass and fresh air. Sherlock turned up his nose. He hated fresh air. He was shuffled out of the car and the men grouped together vaguely gesturing to the pub. He thought for a moment. He knew the address of John's parents but he did not know the location and forcing himself to leave his phone behind meant he was without his internet. (It had seemed a good idea at the time. Ensuring Mycroft couldn't track him using it and he wouldn't have to spend all his time avoiding phone calls.) He was lost.

So he agreed and followed them in ordering a beer and never drinking it. Eventually their conversation slowed and Sherlock decided now was his time to pounce. They came from the village and so there was a chance that they knew John, or at least his family. "You all grew up here?"

"Yeah"

"Oh right... do you know a guy called John...John Watson?"

All of them grew visibly surprised and cheerful. "John! Of course we do! He was in our class; quiet lad went off to train with the army graduating year."

Sherlock smiled. "Oh right, so you'd know where he used to live, I mean where his parents live?"

"Wait...why do you..."

Sherlock watched each of their faces drop and wondered why they had suddenly gotten so upset. He reviewed what he had said but couldn't see anything in there that would offend the men. So he waited. "He told me to come and talk to them, to invite them to a family reunion sort of thing."

Sighs all round and Sherlock shrugged.

"God for a second there I thought you were going to say he died in service or something."

"Oh no, he is living in London actually."

"Ooh London, whereabouts?"

"Near Regents park actually."

"Ooh that's nice."

He almost swore. It didn't matter when John was right now. (Well, it did matter but he couldn't afford to get distracted, especially not by sentences that made his chest ache.) All that mattered was that he found his parents. "So his parents...?"

"Oh right right, no you are right. Come on."

He was led out of the pub and through the narrows streets to what seemed like the main road in the village. "See that house there, with the sign in the window. That's the Watson place."

"Oh, thank you."

"Yeah, see you around mate." They all raised their hands in goodbye and Sherlock all but ran away from them, down the road towards John's parents house.

He paused for a minute just outside the door, barely glancing at the paper sign taped neatly to the window as he rapped on the clean white plastic. He was left waiting for merely two minutes before a short grey haired man opened the door looking him up and down with dark almost black-brown eyes and a face that minus the stiff grey handlebar moustache and furry brows could almost be a mirror of his son's. He did however lack the laugh lines around his eyes and was dressed in a twee three piece suit complete with stiff grey tie to compliment the white shirt and blue pinstriped fabric clasped around his stout frame. He had the air of a man that was good in an emergency, and more importantly very good in a fight.

Sherlock smiled (Honestly for once. It was, after all interesting to see what he may end up waking up to each and every morning in the distant future. If they both survived. Which was unlikely) and affected a confidant if slightly sheepish pose waving a hand awkwardly. His mind had gone blank in that second and he had no idea what to say to get himself inside.

"You the new lodger?"

That could work. "Yes, yes I am."

"Come in."

Well. That was easier than expected.

He was led into the tight hallway, wallpapered with hideous brown flowers from the 70's and with bare floorboards, buffed to an impressive sheen. Shoes were stacked in a small rack by the door and there was an umbrella stand decorated with camels. Clearly a holiday token of some sort. He followed the stout man into a living room, larger than expected with hard wood panelled walls, the bare brick above painted an inoffensive cream colour that were in stark contrast to the deep blood red carpet and mismatched sofas. (Although all were in some varying shade of red. An attempt at a match had clearly been made...and failed.)

After a moment's pause he settled on the closest red monstrosity and placed his hands together on his knees to smile his best charming smile at John's father. The news was on the TV. Some sort of crisis or accident had happened and the reporter was talking very quickly with a stern expression. Sherlock looked away. "Mary! The new lodger is here...you know...What is your name again boy?"

"It's Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

The fluffy eyebrows rose like a shot and he put his hands on his hips before hollering again. "You remember...Sherlock...as if you'd forget a name like that."

The man turned and dropped into a comfortable looking brown armchair, perfectly posited in front of the TV with a stand next to it covered in tea stained magazines obsessively stacked straight. So one of his parents was clearly much more of a 'slob' than the other, interesting. "You a foreigner?"

"Uh no I-"

An equally short woman burst through a farmhouse style door to Sherlock right, shuffling into the room much like Mrs Hudson did on a Sunday afternoon laden down with a tray piled high with a pot of tea and the sort of buttery fluffy cakes only woman of a certain age knew how to make or where to buy. She gave her husband a stern look and smiled warmly at Sherlock. Her eyes were also brown but an almost golden shade and much more like her son's with deep laughter lines and a wide open face. Her posture was also very much familiar, rigid back with strong wide shoulders and the considered footwork only a soldier would have.

Fascinating, Johns father the family doctor and his army wife.

It appeared John had hit the winning streak of family work tradition. "Oh Simon hush, Sherlow is a...interesting name."

"It's Sherlock."

The detective bowed a little at her as he had stood on her entry. (It was important to always appear respectful when working a mark.) "Oh I am sorry dear. Sherl_ock_. Well...where are your bags dear?"

"I uh...got into some trouble with the hotel in London and my bags were misplaced. I have money enough to pay you rent and to buy any replacements I will need so you need not worry."

"London eh? You one of those business types? You know stocks and all that?"

"Oh, no actually. I'm a...writer."

The men from the train had inexplicably jumped to the front of his thoughts and Sherlock tilted his head and affected a bashful smile.

"A writer? Well that isn't what I'd call a job now is it..."

Johns mum hissed and Simon glanced to her rolling his eyes and glancing Sherlock up and down. "I'll need £100 deposit, cash."

Sherlock smiled and dug into his wallet pulling five crumpled twenties from within, handing them over and looking to John's father, not breaking the eye contact until he did. After a second a strong hand gripped his and Sherlock fought the urge to attempt to crumple his fingers as the doctor crushed the bones in his hand to dust. After a double beat of pumping up and down John's father released him and Sherlock took his hand back, careful to keep his face neutral. Best not show any weaknesses.

His eye flickered around the room and caught on a large photograph of John in his formal uniform on the mantelpiece. He looked devastatingly handsome and it took Sherlock a moment to control the possessive smirk from sweeping over his face. He walked towards it and reached out before thinking better of the movement, crossing his hands behind his back and bending to get a closer glance. John looked happy, his boyish face still unaffected by the ravages of war and yet he could still see the simple pleasure his work brought him and the excitement in his eyes. He ignored the voice in his head telling him that this John would never have wanted Sherlock. He imagined himself at that age and cringed. Not John would have never have even noticed Sherlock.

"That's our boy, John."

"He is a soldier, like you."

Mary blinked in surprise and frowned at him from her position at his side. Sherlock backtracked for a second. He had to explain, he had to treat them like the morons he had been surrounded by before John had appeared to act as a delightful buffer. "Uh, I mean, you have a military posture...it's the one thing all military people share..."

"Oh, you have been in the forces?"

Sherlock thought about it for a moment, no that would be a stretch too far. "No but I did know some soldiers back in London..."

"Oh, well what is the city like? Did I mention John just moved there, he is so busy these days he doesn't really get a chance to write. Actually you might have met him! Doctor John Watson..."

"Uh no, no I don't think so."

"For god's sake Mary it's a big city he isn't going to know every man in there."

"I know that Simon but you never know do you."

Sherlock stood awkwardly as they bickered, looking around at the pictures until his eyes caught on the family picture hidden far in a corner. John's fathers' hair was the same light blonde that John's was and his moustache was bordering on ginger. Mary had brown hair curling around her ears and Sherlock could see a shadow of Harrys wild grin on her lips. Sat side by side in front of their parents were a very young John, probably around 6 or 7 with neatly combed hair and a tiny version of his father's suit. His expression was sombre, calmer than the even younger Harry, no more than a wild looking toddler clasped in his arms with her chubby fingers arched around his neckline and wild curls obscuring his face a little as she grinned up at him. She clearly adored him; even Sherlock could see that and John's careful hold on her told him just how close the siblings were.

Sherlock thought of a similar picture hung above one of the fireplaces in the summer house. Mummy regal in black and his father no more than a distant memory of pipe smoke and stern ticking offs stood behind her, enormous hand leant on his partners shoulder as hers were on the shoulders on the already towering Mycroft with his exact smarmy expression and puffed out posture stark in contrast to the odd angular thin child Sherlock was, his hair combed tightly into submission but still twisting rebelliously about his ears and his gaze off to the side. Probably distracted by an assistant or some movement in a street outside. Something infinitely more important that the documentation of his awkwardness and of his isolation from a picture perfect family that he just didn't understand.

"You have a daughter?"

The mood in the room changed suddenly and Sherlock smirked inwardly to himself. He had noticed...good for him. "Yes, we had a daughter called Harriet."

Sherlock frowned. "Had? Oh I am sorry I didn't-"

"No dear you weren't to know."

The Watsons shared a secret (Well hardly, since Sherlock had noticed it and all.) glance of solidarity and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Well, if you will excuse me. I have had a long day...do you mind showing me the room...?"

"Of course." Johns father jumped to his feet and walked from the room, Sherlock thanking Johns mum for the cake she shoved into his hand as he left and the two men climbed the stairs in silence. He was shown the bathroom and then a large room around the size of the kitchen at 221B with a bed, desk, chair and wardrobe lined up against one wall with a small two seater sofa against the opposite wall along with a corner unit on which was perched the largest most ungainly television Sherlock had even seen. He listened patiently as Johns father explained rent and bills and thanked the man as he was handed a set of keys.

When he was finally left alone he strode to the bed and sat down, staring hard out of the window at the neat little garden to the back of the house and far over the fence to the distant river flowing beyond. He stayed in that position for a while wondering if John had gotten back from showing Harry around and if he had been told that Sherlock had gone AWOL yet. He probably had, he was probably very angry right now. Stamping back and forth in the flat, shouting at Mycroft and at Becker with his large strong hands balled up in anger and his voice still careful, still considered even as he shouted and the fast paced upright march he would take on as he fought to stop himself form punching something.

Sherlock chuckled at the idea of Mycroft cowering in the wake of his fiancée's anger but it was only shallow, deep down he couldn't ignore the pang in his chest at the idea of his actions causing so much distress to the doctors to the strange shining creature he had somehow managed to snare. Sherlock bounced off the bed and strutted around the room for a moment, hands on hips as his mind tried to recoil as fast as it could from his dark thoughts and he distracted himself by looking through the faded aged books on the shelf and out of the door into the tight corridor to the battered wardrobe.

He froze and stared at it for a long moment before his curiosity got the better of him and he was striding across the room and out of his door. He glanced around listening intensely to ensure he wouldn't be disturbed as he flung it open and looked inside. There hung several discarded shirts and t-shirts and piled at the bottom amongst ancient trainers and what looked like unworn dress shoes were boxes. Boxes and boxes and Sherlock yanked them from the cupboard ferreting them away into his room and flinging them across the floor, carefully lifting the lids and examining Johns toys. Small figurines of soldiers and a chess set and a collection of some sort of trading card and in one box a enormous book with a battered cover that was taped over in many places the pages tinted by age and complete with a damp musty smell.

Sherlock slowly opened the cover, careful not to tear the sensitive binding and it was a book of fairytales. Sherlock lifted the heavy book in his arms and carried across the room kicking his shoes off and laying the book on the bed as he shucked his jacket off his shoulders and climbed into the sheets. Rain began to fall outside of his small window and Sherlock reached out, lifting the metal hatch to swing the window open wide until the pane bounced lightly off the outside wall of the house and he was exposed to the cold wind brought up by the thickening downpour and he sighed looking out at what he knew would be London's direction. Back at his childhood home he had always gone outside to his secret hidden place and had sat staring out at the rain as it bounced down over Mummy's perfectly managed gardens and he remembered the whistling of the wind as it bent the trees around him and the very spark in the air, charged with energy as a thunder storm rolled in over the land around him.

A crack of lightening over a garden not a mile away and Sherlock lifted the book up onto his knees, spreading the pages and glancing down at the words.

He had never been one to read fiction, most of his books were for reference, textbooks, essays, scientific papers and he flipped through the pages glancing at the hand drawn illustrations with the hole in his chest growing somewhat deeper as he stared and he wondered if Johns mother had read this book to him as a child, if she had perched at the end of the bed and spoken in soft lilting tones to him as he drifted off to sleep. He tired to imagine Mummy in the same situation and shook his head to clear the image from his mind, it was just so jarringly _wrong_.

Sleep did not visit him and so he sat until the heavy fragrant rain turned to a misty drizzle of dawn looking at the words and trying to imagine the story in his mind. Trying to lose himself in the fairy tale world. Eventually the odd silence of the night was broken by ordinary people waking up to go to their ordinary jobs and to do ordinary things and soon he could hear the Watsons moving around and he waited for it all to go quiet downstairs before he sneaked out to the bathroom and cleaned his face and attempted to finger brush his hair into something slightly more respectful. He had to keep up the impression that he was normal after all.

He left the small space and wandered around the top floor for a few minutes, ducking his head into rooms and out again in case someone was inside. He couldn't help himself, he wanted to see where John had grown up, to see a normal family life. In the very last room, more a raised level than room sat the dismantled remains of laptop and the tea stained carpet around a fallen mug betraying a frustrated sort of outburst. Sherlock saw the parts on the desk and his fingers twitched. He did have to endear himself to Johns parents and if fixing this computer fell into that category as well as being somewhat engaging to the detective all the better. He slid into the chair and turned the device over examining the parts scattered about the desk. It was all very simple really.

By the time he made it downstairs Johns father had already left for work and Sherlock plodded into the kitchen to the delighted cooing of Johns mother. She pushed him into a rickety wooden chair at a similarly rickety wooden table and pushed a plate of bacon and sausages and eggs in front of him and Sherlock tried to politely say no but she put her hands on her hips and suddenly the _look_ was baring down at him and Sherlock decided it was definitely a genetic trait and he hadn't eaten in as long as he could remember and so he picked up a fork and shuffled the surprisingly good food into his mouth.

Yet again a Watson had forced him to eat.

She turned away from him and began washing pots in a large deep sink and Sherlock licked his lips. He was curious...okay not curious, he _needed_ to know everything all the time about every single aspect of John and what better way to learn about someone than to ask his mother? Sherlock thought about what to ask her, what his first question to be and he decided on the perfect beginning. However, when he opened his mouth to ask the first thing to come out was, "What happened to your cat?"

His eyes had fixed on a empty cat food bowl on the floor and then to the cat flap in the back door and Johns mother turned back around wiping her hands on a tea towel. "He has gone missing actually. How did you know we had a cat?"

Sherlock froze. He couldn't tell her that he had read the letter where she waffled on about the creature to her son and he _was_ attempting to appear normal so he couldn't tell her that it was obvious from the way she patently wouldn't look at the bowl and the way she had moved the night before, glancing around the room as if expecting a fourth 'person' to be there. "I just guessed what with the empty bowl and everything."

Johns mother finally looked at the bowl and stared for second before looking back at Sherlock. "So you're a writer...are we talking novels or articles or plays..."

Sherlock didn't know. "Novels." He just said the first thing she did.

"Oh, can I ask what your story is about?"

Sherlocks fingers tightened on his knees and he glanced around the room. He didn't know what to say. He wasn't good at making things up, not like this. He could weave fantastic lies when he needed too but coming up with a fictional story, something creative and entertaining. No he couldn't do that. So instead he told her about something he did know. "It's about a detective and his...friend. They solve crimes."

"Oh I do love a good crime novel. What is it called?"

Inside he smirked because for some reason a certain image floated to the forefront of his mind and he looked away from her and out of the window at the grey sky. "The red sweater." Sherlock waited for her response but she didn't give him one she instead reacted to the click of the electric kettle on the unit and began pouring a pot of tea and Sherlock sat or a second thinking over his next words in his head and he knew it would be a bad idea but he couldn't resist and well, he had never been one for impulse control.

"Actually, the detectives..._friend_ is a soldier."

She looked at him her soft gaze turning confused and she titled her head. "Oh..?"

"Well you said your son is a soldier and you were one so I was wondering if you could give me a sort of general picture of what a real solider is like...I mean you don't have too..." He affected a nervous tone stumbling over his words carefully and fumbling with his fingers. Her expression softened instantly.

"No dear...It is okay-"

He left the little tumble down house some time later with a fake smile on his face stating he needed to buy supplies. It seemed that John had had an idyllic childhood at first, his mother told him stories of summers spent going for picnics by the river and how proud she was of him and how much they loved him. But then Sherlock had asked about Harry and John's mother had gone quiet and Sherlock had asked if there had been an accident and she still said nothing and Sherlock apologised and Johns mother had gotten a strange look in her eye before turning to him and asking him a question.

"What would you do if the child you had loved and poured your every minute into chose to turn away from you and your life? Chose to hurt you?"

Sherlock had sat in silence for a moment. He didn't know what he would do, he couldn't imagine ever having children and he didn't have the best track record talking to people younger than himself and so instead he thought about John. What would the doctor say if posed the same question? "I would try to understand their point of view. I would forgive them."

Johns mother had stared at him like he was the ghost of her past and she frowned and Sherlock had leapt to his feet glancing out of the back window to avoid her wide eyes. Their jovial conversation had taken an odd, almost menacing tone and he knew he had to escape. He had to make her like him and this clearly wasn't the way to go about it. He had stood awkwardly in that kitchen looking around at the things that cluttered the walls and the shelves wondering just how much of it belonged to his fiancée and suddenly the silence was broken by Johns mothers hands slapping together and that smile. She had the same smile John would get when he was trying to snap Sherlock out of one of his moods and even thought he was hurting as well, even though the nightmares, their life together, even though it all frightened them he was going to smile and be cheerful and then everything would be okay. Sherlock automatically smiled back and she shook her head.

"Look at me, waffling on. I'm sure you have a busy day ahead of you."

And so he had left scuttling outside to freedom, walking the small selection of shops buying three new suits and two pairs of trousers along with underwear and a new slightly shorter military style jacket from a fawning tailor. He hadn't had one new customer buy so much all at once for years.

The detective returned to the house at around midday and crept upstairs placing his bags on the bed before leaving again. As quiet as a ghost. He wandered in the opposite direction this time, to find a place where he could think. He strode away from the house to the bridge nearby and he leant on the edge peering down at the water and he thought about what he could do to make them like him, to make them see. He heard footsteps cross behind him, hesitating just behind his back before picking up speed and leaving the bridge. Sherlocks eyes flickered to the side to see a tall man in a red coat trot away down the road.

He didn't look back and Sherlock stared down into the river. He could see tiny fish flashing by under the water just as a light sprinkling of rain began to fall and the drip drip of water splashing into the almost silent river floated up at him and Sherlock watched the stupid fish bob to the top to catch flies that weren't there, enticed by the sound of movement on the surface. He remembered fishing in the lake out in the country that one long summer with Jeremy and how he had told him wild stories of catching catfish the size of Labradors.

It was then he thought of that stupid cat and before he could stop himself he was striding back across the bridge and around the corner to a small path that led behind the houses of the main street and he counted the little brick walled gardens off as he trotted down the drizzle soaked pathway. He stopped when he came to a grey painted wooden gate and he stood on tiptoe to reach over and unlock the catch letting himself inside. Crouched in the corner he made a map in his mind from flattened grass and worn paths caused by the cats' movements leading over the opposite wall and onwards. He stayed there for a moment, inhaling the smell of the damp grass and feeling it cold and crisp under his fingers before he was up and away, striding back out of the gate to look for further evidence of the Watsons cat. It took him twenty minutes of shuffling along on his knees, leaning down so his chest brushed the floor, his eyes following what he couldn't be sure were regular paths when he came upon a seemingly forgotten shed stood in the back entranceway further down the street. He leapt to his feet and walked up rapping on the window and peering inside.

"Cat. Watson cat?"

John had said something along those lines whilst visiting a cat sanctuary for a case. He had walked along the cages peering in with a strange goofy smile on his face tapping lightly on windows and whispering to the 'kitty' reacting to him inside. Sherlock smirked as he remembered that now familiar lurch in his stomach as he watched, the way he had been so oddly distracted by the image. It had seemed insignificant in passing but now he knew it was anything but. He listened hard but heard nothing from inside the shed, pressing his ear up close to the in glass window pane his eyes automatically staring blindly out and then he saw it.

An open window, muddy paw prints smudged and a small collection of cats grouped around a large food bowl on the counter. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and headed directly for that window, the cats there perking up as he approached and attempting to rub up against him as he looked in close at the paw prints. His work was hindered however by the strange feline collective on the windowsill, now batting at his curls and rubbing their heads against his. Sherlock stood and put his hands on his hips.

"Now stop that. Have you seen the Watson cat?"

He froze and blinked heavily. He had gone insane. He had finally managed it, after everything it was a pack of probably feral flea-bitten cats to make him lose it. He was glad Lestrade wasn't here to see this. Sherlocks fingers found their way into his hair and he dug his nails into his skull, freezing when a frail voice rang out surprisingly clear in the damp air. "Mr. Fuzzles? Are your little friends here to see you?"

Sherlock dropped to the floor to avoid the old woman seeing him lurking in her garden and was joined by one of the fluffiest of the cats, a brown and black creature with pale blue eyes that pawed at his collar as he lay not breathing in the mud. He was supposed to be endearing himself to the Watsons, not getting himself caught trespassing in neighbours gardens.

He lay for a few seconds until he heard the patter of her heels moving back over the carpet and leapt to his feet. Looking inside the window he could see cats everywhere in the room beyond, old sofas and tables cluttered the room and cats lay, played and slept on every surface. Clearly the woman was _very_ fond of cats. Sherlock sighed; he really had limited time until Mycroft found him so it was better to be proactive. He reached out and lifted the window, sliding it open enough to slip inside. The cats scattered and watched with interest as Sherlock climbed into the room peering around at his feline companions. He looked at the ones with collars, checking tags and trying to avoid the hordes of meowing nudging cats now swarming about his feet.

That was then he saw the closet and the cats grouped around it. They looked at him and Sherlock stared back. It was almost as though they were pointing the closet out to him, as the swarm at his ankles dispersed and walked towards the previously avoided corner as one. Sherlock blinked.

He was imagining things, seeing patterns in random events.

Regardless his sleep deprived mind thought, there is no harm in looking. He reached out and pulled on the handle, pressing it down and yanking the door open, it swung back heavily and Sherlock looked down to see three cats curled up in boxes and on top of old coats, blinking at him and running from the room. He bent down as they darted through his legs and tried to grab the only one with a tag.

'**Bruce**'

On the back the name and number of the Watsons house. Sherlock beamed. He held it long enough to read the tag before the pitter patter of kitten heels on ancient carpet returned and the cat pushed away for him, scratching Sherlocks face as it catapulted from his hands. He cursed under his breath and slipped backwards into the cupboard as the woman trotted into the room. He waited there, in the close darkness with his ear against the door listening intently for her to walk away. After a tense few minutes he prised open the door and peered around to see se was gone, leaping from the closet he tiptoed through the room searching and peering at the cats. It was then he spotted Bruce sat amongst a small group in the corridor, hungrily wolfing down an over flowing bowl of at food. Sherlock walked towards them and they all froze peering up at him. Sherlock stopped and stared back. He knew deep down that if he took one more step they would scatter and so he leant down slightly cooing softly at them.

"Bruce. Bruce stay there."

He leant forwards and took a single soft step the cats blinked at him and all at once shot away from the bowl, Bruce heading off down the corridor and towards the front door. Sherlock followed him slowly, stopping when he reached an open door the soft sounds of a radio filtering through the muggy sugar scented air. He peeked around the doorframe and caught a glimpse of the old woman watering her plants with shaky hands. He waited for her back to be turned before jolting across to leap at Bruce. The cat sprang away from where it had been sat at the bottom of the stairs licking its paws, and landed two steps up. It peered at Sherlock through its lamp-like eyes and the detective snarled under his breath crawling towards it with his hand out.

"Bruce Bruce Bruce."

Sherlock reached out and his fingers brushed over the fur on its chest before the doorbell rang out behind him and Bruce, now spooked, ran up the stairs and around the corner. Sherlock heard movement in the other room and followed his quarry up pausing at the top and wondering which room it had gotten into. He poked his head into the room directly in front of him just as the old woman appeared downstairs, messing with the multitude of locks on the front door and the detective ducked into the room. It was empty bar an old chest of drawers and a welsh dresser leant up against the wall and Sherlock swore, careful to be as quiet as possible as he edged his way back out onto the landing. He ducked around the corner to avoid being seen by the woman and the man who had appeared at her front door and skirted into the room to his left.

It was pink. Pink everywhere from the bedspread to the walls and the carpet and the curtains and every statue on the wooden units. Sherlock shuddered and glanced around spotting a flicking tail under the bed. He dropped silently to his hands and peered in at Bruce. The cat blinked arrogantly back at him. His focus and determination seemed to crumble all at once and he sighed desperately. "Come here Bruce. _Please_, I need John's parents to like me." He was clearly insane. He was so desperate to make this surprise work. To make John happy.

Bruce blinked slowly at him and Sherlock winced. He was pleading with a cat. How the great fall. He had his face leant against the carpet, trying not to inhale the thick pink threads whilst simultaneously trying to smother himself in the stupid floor, when a much smaller head rubbed through his hair. He looked up to see Bruce's eyes right in his face. He smiled hesitantly and sat back on his legs Bruce strutting up to him and curling around his knees.

Sherlock felt an odd warmth in his chest and reached out carefully lifting the creature into his arms.

He held Bruce close to his chest to avoid him escaping and made his way back out of the room, careful not to lessen his grip as he paused in the landing, listening to see if the woman had finished at her door and sighing in relief when he heard the sound of pans in the kitchen somewhere at the back of the house. Sherlock carefully descended the stairs and reached for the locks on the door but they were complicated and he manoeuvred his furry quarry around in his arms to free one hand and quickly tried to release the various metal pulls, knobs and catches before yanking the door open and slipping out. In the daylight he could see that Bruce was a slightly fat grey haired cat with large green eyes and thick soft fur. He seemed (Like all other cats.) to like Sherlock, staying still in his arms and blinking slowly as though being rescued from days locked in a cupboard was inconsequential.

The detective walked down the street ignoring the slightly alarmed expression of a woman walking down the opposite side of the road with a small child. Probably because she recognised the cat. Sherlock tried to smile in a friendly manner but this seemed to frighten her even more and she increased her speed, hurrying the child along whilst averting her eyes. The detective frowned; perhaps he hadn't gotten a hold on this 'human' thing as well as he thought. Or perhaps he needed John around to humanise him. His frown deepened and Bruce meowed softly on his arms reaching up to nuzzle just under his ear. Sherlock moved his hands to hold the creature tightly as he headed around the corner and down to an alleyway that led to the path at the back of the gardens. He decided it was better he avoided people.

The back door to the kitchen was unlocked and Sherlock let himself in, surprising a crowd of eight old women sat on mismatched chars around the table with John's mother sat as the figurehead. All at once they turned and stared at him eyes drifting over his face and down to Bruce and then to the state of his knees. "Mrs. Watson, I believe I have found your cat."

"Oh my god."

She jumped to her feet and rushed around the table taking the cat from him and hugging it to her chest as another woman bounced up from her chair and reached for the cupboards filling the cat bowl as the other women cooed over his return. They were all smiling and so Sherlock stretched his lips over his teeth and stood helplessly in the doorway until they noticed him again. "Oh Sherlock dear...dear dear..."

The women were now checking him out curiously and Mrs. Watson blushed a little, using one hand to gesture towards the detective. "Pardon me ladies. This is our new lodger Sherlock, he is a writer."

They cooed at him much like they had at the cat and the one closest to him reached out rubbing his knee and then sniffing her fingers. "Have you been crawling around on the floor?"

Nine sets of curious eyes fixed on his face and then on the blood on his cheek and the mud on his front and the moss-stained fabric of his knees and Sherlock gestured vaguely at Bruce who was chowing down enthusiastically having been placed down at his owners' feet. "I was tracking the cat."

A brief awkward pause. He looked anywhere but at their faces, still thinking about John and about how easier things were when he was around. "Thank you Sherlock dear. Oh your poor face."

She reached out and placed two fingers on his chin, turning his face into the light to get a better look at the damage. After a moments pause she exhaled, seemingly satisfied he was largely unharmed. "Perhaps you would like to get cleaned up?" He ducked his head respectively and swept from the room, all too thankful to escape. As soon as the old wooden door swung closed he heard a barrage of questions assault John's mother about the handsome new lodger.

On his way back down the stairs he heard the front door click and glanced up, eyes catching those of Johns' father. "Mr Watson."

"Sherlock!"

There was a brief pause in which John's father gestured towards the detective as a somewhat anxious or unsure gesture. Funny, John had the same physical tic. Something ached deep in his chest and Sherlock fought to keep the neutral expression on his face. Johns father looked up at the stairs, to the door of the living room and then as if deciding on something back at the detective."Ah uh... You didn't happen to take a look at the laptop upstairs did you?"

He raised an eyebrow. Oh good, he noticed. "Oh...yes. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to...I was just... I couldn't help myself." He had always been good at faking anxiety.

"Oh no, no no. Thank you! I was having trouble getting around the graphic card issue and-"

"No trouble."

There was another brief pause and John's dad took a few steps forwards and one to the side so he was hovering in the living room door with a polite smile. Sherlock wasn't sure what that smile meant and so e tried to mirror it, tried to put Johns father at ease. "Is Mary in?"

"Yes she is having a meeting in the kitchen."

"Ah I see. Okay. Don't mind me then." He lifted his hands in an oddly sheepish gesture and Sherlock sniffed. John's father was a strange man, funny and affecting one moment, judging and cold the next. Fascinating. The man had left by the time Sherlock looked back up.

When he returned to the women they had stopped talking about him and were instead arguing about a crisis and how preparations had been made months in advance. Sherlock frowned and tugged on his clean white shirt, tucking it into his new black trousers and combing fingers through his still damp hair. He opened the door to the kitchen slowly and stood quietly with his hands behind his back, all the years he spent as a child being taught how to be respectful, how to talk to his elders and how to make a good impression on the parents of a prospective wife finally had justification. One by one the women fell silent staring at him and glancing amongst themselves.

Johns mother smiled at him having just two seconds ago been shouting the loudest of all about how they had no idea that this would happen. "If you will forgive me Mrs. Watson but I couldn't help overhearing. Is there anything I can do to help you ladies?"

The nearest woman to him blushed and they all hid smiles. (Although Sherlock could clearly see they were flattered. He made sure to appear innocent on the outside but inside, inside he was smirking. He had them.) A large woman sat in the furthest corner with a poorly fitted short sleeved blazer and long pink skirt scoffed. "Not unless you can find a viola player at short notice you can't." The women looked downtrodden and Sherlock allowed a handsome smile to stretch over his teeth, ducking his head to appear shy before lifting his face with a bashful glance around.

"I don't know much about a viola player but I could help you if you want a violin instead..."

It turned out that John's mother was in fact chair of the local drama club and that a tribute to a local playwright had been planned for months. The only problem being that their viola player had pulled out last minute leaving the club without the pivotal character and only one day to find a replacement. Sherlock had never felt so magnificent, stood to the side of the stage with a child's borrowed violin and dressed in a bright red waistcoat with intricate purple thread and his face obscured by a gold painted mask. He did not have any lines, just a few short pieces of music and a few gestures. The woman had spent most of the intervening hours between the kitchen meeting and the locating of the violin murmuring among themselves that surely he wouldn't be able to play the music to the same degree with only an hour or so practice. Sherlock chuckled under his breath, their faces had been priceless after his fifth attempt at recalling the tune he got it pitch perfect.

They had shut up after that, now openly admiring his skills.

He took a deep breath, the stage was covered in strewn hay for the farm scene and he knew his cue was coming up. There was a tinkling on stage and Sherlock began the countdown. He had a minute to go, energy thrumming in his fingertips he remembered being a child. His first recital with the parents of his classmates and Mummy sat in the centre of the audience with Mycroft perched beside her.

Father had other business to attend to, much more important than his sons' first ever live performance. Business he would not return from.

Sherlock sniffed and finished the count bouncing out onto the stage with a large grin and beginning to play.

During the interval he sat alone, politely nodding and smiling at his fellow 'actors'. They seemed hesitant to talk to him, probably because he was reading through the music for the second half, eyes down face pinched in a focussed frown. He wondered vaguely if it was that he was concentrating or if it was his natural social alienation. Although... when he did glance up they would smile at him, honest open faces that seemed to understand how important the music was, perhaps just this once his personality was not an issue.

He was glad that they chose not to bother him; unfortunately however four men in particular did not fit this bill. "Sherlock!"

He was surrounded. The detective glanced up and plastered a polite smile on his face. "Hello."

"We saw you in the play! You never said you were going to be in it! We would've got better seats!" It was the tallest man of the four business men from the train, the angry man patting him on the shoulder as the remaining two nodded along in agreement, all so happy to see him.

"I didn't know I was going to be when I met you. I came along when the original player pulled out."

"Oh well, you are pretty good."

"Thank you." He glanced at the time, "I apologise gentlemen but I only have five minutes to remember this piece..."

"Oh no, no no. Although, tell you what, we will meet you afterwards? Go for a celebratory drink?"

Sherlock found himself nodding despite himself and the group of men disappeared as quickly as they had appeared. Only to be replaced moments later by Mrs. Watson. "Oh Sherlock, thank you dear I really can't thank you enough. We were in a real pickle before you came along." She ducked down and pressed a kiss to his cheek before striding away, ordering actors to hurry up[a and get dressed with a hand outstretched.

The detective didn't practice the song. He sat in shock for a moment. No wonder John was so kind, so enthusiastic, so warm to people. It seemed that everybody here was. Not once had he been looked at as a strange alien creature that needed to be changed or was unworthy in any sense. Not once had he received anything but warmth and acceptance. He grinned. Yes, acceptance that they will soon show to their son and to their daughter. Surely if they could see that Sherlock was capable of making their son happy and that someone as good as the detective, as kind could love another person of the same sex then perhaps they were wrong to banish their children from their sight. Yes. This would show them, this would show everyone.

Suddenly he was being clapped at aggressively; taking this as his cue to get ready he got up from his seat and wandered to the curtains to wait for his signal.

After the play he joined the other actors on stage to bow to the crowd and for once he didn't have to fake his smile, warmth and affection washing over him like the tides and he was bustled backstage, hands clapping down on his shoulder and people hugging him seemingly without caring whether he participated or not. This broke the rule about asking and Sherlock stayed stiff, awkward on the sidelines. He wasn't sure what to do with himself but again this was taken care of as the four businessmen returned and he was dragged from the backstage area, out of a side door and away down the recently rain soaked streets.

The air was shockingly cold out here and the sweat drying on his neck and arms stung as he was tugged along, still wearing the red waistcoat over his white shirt, the mask turned around to point off the left side of his head rather than covering his face. Thankfully he had placed the violin down before leaving and he turned out the other men's chatter as they wove through back streets and down tiny alleyways coming out at a small pub somewhere near the river. Sherlock could hear it not forty feet away.

It was drowned out by raucous laughter and slurred speech as he was forcibly pushed into the pub. It was a tiny suffocating space with stools and tall tables everywhere, people crammed into every corner and yet his companions seemed to know exactly where to stand at the right moment to secure one of the coveted curved seating booths and he was pushed down into a seat whilst the man with the too-blue eyes walked away to buy the drinks. It was too hot in here and the detective lusted for the cool of the outside world again, where he could breathe. Sherlock opened his mouth to mention that he didn't drink but he was being ignored and all three other men were glancing around, waving and shouting to other patrons.

They shouted back in response and Sherlock watched the different groups with mild interest until his eyes caught on a familiar face and he frowned trying to focus but the man disappeared in a blink of an eye and Sherlock couldn't see where he went. He huffed, frustrated.

He hoped he would get his chance when the blue eyed man returned but instead a large pint was slid in front of him and the tallest man raised his glass prompting the other three to mirror him. "To a great performance." They knocked glasses and sat staring at Sherlock. He looked at them, their eyes darting expectantly between the glass and the detective and he looked down.

He knew it was a bad idea. He knew it was but he was here. Alone. London was so very far away and who would know? He would drink just one. Just one and that would be it and he would stop and get up and leave and go to bed early. Ready to win Johns' parents affections in the morning. The addictive part of his brain screamed at him and Sherlock could feel the hunger in his fingers and he swallowed hard. Ever since he had gotten clean he had managed to force himself not to imbibe any drug. He knew it was a bad idea but they were still looking and he thought about the last time he had gotten drunk and how he had told John he loved him and how well it worked out in the end and really it couldn't hurt. His heart beat was slowing and time moved down until he could see his hand reaching out in slow motion, water trickling down the outside of the glass and over his fingers and down and he licked his lips and lifted the glass to his mouth. It clinked against his teeth and he lifted the drink and tipped some of the liquid into his mouth and it was bitter and slipped down his throat and Sherlock froze. What was he doing? But when he opened his eyes the glass was half full and the other men were laughing and cheering and smiling at him and Sherlock grinned, giddy with his body's relief and at his new found 'friends.'

Perhaps one little drink wasn't the end of the world.

Time seemed to melt away as he drank pint after pint listening to the other men chat and joke and laugh and it all came so easily to them and it seemed that the happier they got the deeper the hole in his chest got. He thought of London, of rain streaked buildings and the creaking floorboards of the flat and of John. He missed him, it was a similar ache to the one he experienced for his work when left away too long and he closed his eyes trying to picture the doctors face but he was too drunk, his mind too sluggish.

"Hey, what's eating him?"

The men collapsed into peals of laughter and Sherlock opened his eyes the man with the curly hair closest to him paused and the smile slid slowly off his face. "Hey, you alright? We were only joking?"

Sherlock shook his head and leant forwards but his head felt too heavy and he was propelled forwards, elbows landing heavily and painfully against the wooden edge of the table but saving his face from making the same impact. "I miss John." His words were slurred and he stared down into his drink as the other men's laughter died down.

"What? You miss him?" "

Yeah. Is that...Is that normal?" He had no idea if this was how relationships worked. Was he supposed to feel so guilty? There was staunch silence before one of the men spoke.

"Uh...not really. You've only been here what...two nights? I mean I love these guys but I'm not weeping into my pint when I haven't seen them for 48 hours."

Sherlock laughed and wobbled in his seat, weaving to the left and leaning sluggishly against the tallest man who had his head lent back against the wall and was leaning back on his shoulder just as heavily. "Yeah but he isn't just my friend is he..."

"He isn't?"

"No stupid. That is why he gave me this!" he lifted his ring and it wove around in front of his eyes, bobbing up and down in the golden light.

"He gave you your hand?" There was a pregnant pause and the men chuckled sleepily, Sherlock smirked shaking his head. They didn't understand!

"No! He gave me the ring imbecile. He is marrying mee."

"The...whaa? John is gay?"

Sherlock thought about it. Truth be told he didn't know what John was, but he did know one thing. The only thing that mattered. "John loves me."

They were frowning and Sherlock felt his good hazy mood darkening, the warmth in his veins slowly eking out to ice. The four men shared glanced and the tallest one (Seemingly the spokesman of the group.) turned to face the detective. "So you are getting married to John? John Watson?"

"Yes."

"And you are down here to..?"

"Invite his parents to the wedding."

"And nobody else."

"_What_?"

"He isn't inviting us?"

Sherlock knew this. He may be drunk but his mind was still working. At least to some degree, a measure enough to know that his best bet here was to act as what Mycroft would call 'damage control' or he would call ' deducing a possible reason that is both blatantly inoffensive but believable'. "Well he doesn't actually know I'm down here. He hasn't told his parents that he is marrying another man or even that he was ever dating anybody because what happened with his sister. So he hasn't been telling anybody apart from the people that know because of me telling people about it. Like now."

Apparently his drunken mind was not as good at crafting lies as it was at just blurting out the truth. This would be an important thing to remember. For once he felt what could almost be anxiety about their reactions. They shared looks and the tallest man leant in close his beer spiked breath warm against the detectives face and he sluggishly turned his head to make lazy eye contact. "So...We **are** invited then?"

Their priorities were clear then. "I assume so."

The mood suddenly snapped back to the joyous celebratory glee from before and the angry man reached out all but shouting to the other patrons.

"This calls for celebration! Our friend here is getting married! We need beer, a lot more beer!"

He didn't know what time it is, where they were going or why the man in the red coat had been following them for the last ten minutes. He giggled to himself, the frizzy haired mans arm around his shoulders as Sherlock leant into him, his sluggish brain reminding him he had seen that man before. When they were in the pub, he had been across the way, slinking behind the quiz machine but he had seemed familiar then. He frowned in confusion. Sherlock vaguely remembered bumping into him as they left; he was slightly shorter than the detective (But then most people were.) and had glared him. Sherlock laughed again.

He was probably here to fight with him or something.

By the time he had stopped giggling into the now drizzle soaked air the man was long gone. The other three men were wobbling along ahead of them, the angry man jigging and singing loudly with the tallest mans hands around his waist as they drunkenly danced. Sherlock sniggered and clung to his walking partner who was mumbling to himself. "Where are we going?"

The man just looked at him with a dopy smile and shrugged. The smile was wiped off his face mere seconds later as he turned a fascinating shade of white before wrenching himself from Sherlock and tripping over his heels to lean over the wall at the wide of the road, shoulders hunched as he vomited. Sherlock wobbled over screwing his face up at the smell and the man turned to him miserably. Sherlock lifted his hands and shrugged and the frizzy haired man groaned leaning against him again, staying close to the wall to use it as a support to pull them both along. His knees were weak and he fought to keep upright as they moved in tandem, giggling to each other as the blue eyed man began singing along with the dancing pair. It was obviously familiar to all of them because they made the same gestures at the same point as they sang the words and Sherlock laughed. This must be what having friends was like.

They were on a bridge, that much was made clear when his partner had to stop again to throw up, splashing into the water below. The other three men had finally noticed that they were trailing behind and made a precarious journey back towards them muttering sympathy and sleepily leaning against each other. Sherlock took a few steps from the close group. He felt alienated all of a sudden and took a faulty step backwards, tripping over his own feet and stumbling backwards.

It was only because of this he saw the man on the bicycle coming, red coat fluttering softly in the misty rain and Sherlock seemed to see him in slow motion, wobbling sideways to cling to the edge of the bridge wall to get out of the way. But the bicycle changed it path and the man sped up as he came over the crest, Sherlock had barely a second to realise what was about to happen. Not enough time for his alcohol steeped mind to react.

A hard elbow to the chest and he was floating in the air, the flick of red over the edge of the bridge before the ice cold surrounded him and he sucked in a gulp of water as he tried to gasp in shock. His chest couldn't move, the water was so cold and he could feel his back sinking down to hard pebbles. It was dark down here, murky and if he listened behind the roaring of running water in his ears and the frantic pitter patter of his heart he could hear the drip of water on water. The rain had gotten heavier. He was running out of oxygen, opening his mouth desperately and he choked on the water his mind suddenly kicking in and he flailed helplessly flinging his arms and legs out and his mind screamed.

It was his nightmare, it was reality and he couldn't get out he couldn't find the surface.

Was his body going to wash up on the shore? Or would it travel downstream, discovered miles from the town. Miles from anybody who knew him, anybody who cared for him. He thought about John having to identify his water bloated body and he despised himself for ever leaving John. He would die alone. His eyes slid closed in the deepening darkness and he knew this was it, all the sound drowned out.

He was dying here, in the silence.

Suddenly strong arms closed around his waist and he was being pulled, dragged out from beneath the surface and he was held against a chest with powerful legs pounding away beneath him. The rain fell on his still closed eye lids making them twitch but he couldn't open them, he was blind, he was deaf. He couldn't breathe and his skin was numb and he was lying on his back and someone was pounding on his chest and then lips closed around his mouth, pumping air into his lungs and he chocked as the water came back up and his head was pushed over his saviours knees his only focus the burn as he threw up and the sting of the water on his chest and he gasped for air. Sucking it down and clinging desperately to his saviour like the mast of a sinking ship in a storm. His hearing rushed back to him and he listened to the panicked yells of the business men, calling his name shoes on gravel as they ran to him and then the body beneath him tensed and he was flipped over and Sherlock blinked rapidly in the now torrential downpour, his eyes flickering sluggishly across his new friends and then to the face of his saviour.

His golden angel.

"Sherlock?"

His heart hammered in his chest and that face, those eyes. They bore into him and he was so grateful, so very very grateful with his hand outstretched he dragged it down that face, thumb catching on a full bottom lip and he left it there for a second as he watched the emotions skitter across his saviours face. His eyes were wide and Sherlock grinned, he couldn't help it. The pure joy cut short by the look in his angel's eyes, his chest reopening the wound he had suffered for days. Something was wrong. Finally his new friends caught up and they crashed to the ground around him shaking and hugging the man holding him.

"Oh my god! _John_!"

The doctor blinked shell-shocked to his childhood friend and they smiled and man handled the detective, pulling him from Johns lap and to his feet, the doctor pulled up to and as Sherlock stumbled over to lean against a tree, sliding to crouch on his heels trying to ground himself and breathing deeply eyes fixed on his fiancée. John was surrounded a vague smile spreading across his face as his friends greeted him and hugged him and congratulated him and John blushed and gestured weakly and Sherlock was only a hardly aware of the businessmen telling John about Sherlocks plan and the look in his eyes as he looked over at him.

It was like a slap to the face and Sherlock looked away. He couldn't hold that gaze. He felt ashamed, of what he did not know but it stung in his chest and he got to his feet. He felt disappointment that his surprise had been ruined, that he had failed again. "I-"

He stumbled as his head swam and John was suddenly holding him up and looking apologetically to his friends, shaking rain from his eyes. "I need to get him inside. I will find you tomorrow?"

"Yeah no of course. Of course...is he going to be okay?"

Sherlock slumped. Thankful back to be in Johns arms even if his hold was less loving more a bit too tight, too cold, too wet. He didn't hear the doctors reply just the slightly too rough push as he tried to get him to walk ahead and so he did. He didn't look back he didn't think he didn't speak. He just concentrated on breathing and on the cold that numbed his entire body and the pounding in his head and the burn on his chest and he walked on autopilot leading the doctor home. John followed without a word his hand fisted in the back of Sherlocks shirt as if to catch him if he collapsed again and he led him to the front door of the Watson house and he unlocked the door and stumbled inside and up the stairs and he pitched forwards collapsing on the bed.

It didn't occur to him that John had stopped at the front door. He lay face down on the bed and thought about how wet the covers would be now he was on top of them. But that didn't matter now because he could here Johns fast erratic breathing in the doorway and then the minute where he took a deep breath and then sure capable hands were on him lifting him into a sitting position and the top of a soaking wet head was brushing against his chin as a ice cold ear was pressed to his chest and he just took a few breaths and it seemed to satisfy the doctor because he pulled away, checking his pulse on autopilot.

He felt broken, he felt like he had so long ago on the floor of that room talking to the floorboards. He thought about being back at Mycrofts mansion and standing in the cleansing rain and how angry John had been and how carefully he had taken care of him, how reverent his hand been. He looked up trying to find the familiar warmth in his lovers' eyes but John was just blinking at him. Blank and expressionless until a tiny frown appeared on his brow and he looked right into his eyes. Sherlock couldn't breathe.

"Sherlock..."

He opened his mouth to say something, to explain, when two familiar faces appeared in the doorway. John froze at the stifled gasp and turned slowly on his heel to see his parents staring back at him and his mother beamed and reached out to him and John sucked in a haggard breath and she took a step towards him pulling him into a tight hug and John put his hands on her back and looked to his dad who was smiling too and they were so happy and so pleased to see him and John was wearing the same empty expression as Sherlock and he wondered if his parents had any idea of the situation they had just walked in on.

When she pulled away Johns mother kept her hand on her sons back and put a hand on his face smiling warmly at him. "Oh John, what are you doing here? You never said you coming to visit?"

John was stiff in her arms and he reached up pulling her hand from his face and half turning to glance at Sherlock and then back to his mother. She smiled and gestured towards the detective, John staring blankly at him and Sherlock just stared back...

"John, this is our new lodger. Sherlock."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Thank you everyone for the reviews! Please tell me what you think! We are nearing the end now so I hope this is enough plot for you! Too many exclamation points! Please R&R!**

He sat alone on the bed for a full three minutes after John had ushered his parents downstairs, mumbling in monotone and fervently not looking at the sodden detective. His heart hammered in his chest and he felt out of control, sucked into a vortex. This was wrong, wrong, wrong all fucking wrong.

It was meant to be a _nice_ surprise.

John was mad at him, so furious and Sherlock knew there was something else to this. This was ten times the level of rage John had shown when Sherlock had driven cross London in his pants and he wondered if John would want him anymore. He sucked in a sharp breath. Oh god, he really hoped he hadn't messed everything up. He clenched his fingers together and got up from the bed. His chest still ached although he couldn't be sure if it was the water he had gasped down or the crushing disappointing feeling that he had gotten it wrong again.

He walked on jelly legs to the door and padded across to the bathroom. He stopped in the doorway staring in with his hand on the doorframe the only thing keeping him standing as John looked back at him in the bathroom mirror. He looked so hurt that Sherlock honestly couldn't speak. The doctor patted his face dry with a hand towel and pushed past him, pausing for a hesitant second as their chests brushed and his face softened for a instance as the detective trembled against him before his eyes were a mask of anger and fear again and he trotted away, down the stairs.

Sherlock took his time drying his hair and washing his face in the sink. His clothes were still soaked through. That bought him another few minutes be he knew he would have to go downstairs at some point. He would have to face them.

He threw up in the toilet. He had swallowed a lot of water and his head was pounding as he slowly made his way to the kitchen. John was sat at the table with his parents sat across from him. Sherlock (Always with perfect timing.) walked in just as the doctor spoke.

"He isn't who he said he is..."

John's parents looked at him and Sherlock dropped the innocent, slightly self conscious expression he had created for them returning to his usual blank expression. They balked at the change and John's mother reached across the table with a slightly manic laugh and smile; she grabbed his hand and gripped it tight. "What are you talking about honey?"

"He isn't a writer at all, he is a detective."

"But...how do you know..."

"Because I live with him, I work with him."

"You work... no, you didn't mention this is any of your letters..."

"Of course I didn't. You wanted me to go into _practice_, how could I tell I spend my days following a lunatic around whilst he solves crime?"

"They don't allow police detectives to take doctors around with them."

"That is because I don't work for the police." He spoke up and John's father and mother stared at him. Simon put a hand on his wife's shoulder and took a step around the table so he was closer to the detective, blocking him from his wife. He eyed him suspiciously.

"Then you are not a detective..."

"I am a _consulting_ detective. I work with the police when they are out of their depth but take private cases. I invented the job."

"You _invented_-"

Simon was interrupted by John's mother's intake of breath and every male pairs of eyes fixed first on her face and then on John's hand where she was cradling his fingers, ring glinting in the dim light of the kitchen. John snatched his hand away but it was too late and his parents rounded on him, Sherlock forgotten for the moment. He took a step forward and not knowing if he was allowed he kept his hands behind his back instead of reaching out and placing them on John's shoulder like he itched to.

"John love, are you getting married?"

The question hung in the air and the doctor's shoulder stiffened but he didn't look up. He stared down at his ring until Sherlock couldn't take it and when he spoke up for him his voice croaked only slightly.

"Yes he is."

"And what would you know about it?" Such bitter sharpness and Simon stared right into his eyes. Sherlock lifted his chin and put back his shoulders, towering over the family impressive despite the still damp curl of his hair and the pale sick tone of his skin.

"I would know a lot about it, Doctor Watson, as I am the man marrying him."

There was three beats of dead silence before John looked up and leant back to feel Sherlocks fingers dust over the back of his neck before he leant forwards again and looked into his mothers eyes. "Mum?"

She blinked at him her warm eyes turning cold, stony. "Tell me this isn't true, tell me that my boy, my darling boy...tell me-"

She sounded hysterical and John tried to grab at her flailing hands but she flinched away from the cold touch of the ring and John's father reached down to hold her hand.

"It's true."

She sucked in a sob and John pulled his hands back across the table, falling lifeless beside his chair and his head drooped and Sherlock frowned. He felt anger bubbling in his chest and before he could stop himself he strode around the table, leaning down to block their view of their son.

They stared at him, furious as he leant on his hands on their kitchen table and stared right back. He was not afraid of them. He could feel the rage busying under his skin and he felt powerful, unstoppable and he couldn't get the slump of the doctor shoulders out of his mind. He spoke, slow and calculating.

"Is there a _problem_?"

"_A problem_! A **problem**! Of course there is you filthy disgusting fa-"

He never finished his tirade because Sherlock was upon him, leaning over the man and his gaze bore holes in the man's face as their chest brushed and Sherlock let out a cold slow breath. He didn't touch him; he just stood there with every tense line of his body broadcasting his barely withheld attack. The shorter mans pupils retracted in fear and Sherlock leant in close to snarl in his ear.

"You have a problem Doctor? You think there is something wrong with me marrying your son?"

"It's-it's not natural!"

"What is more natural than love between two people? Than the desire to commemorate that love?"

He was fighting not to reach out and strangle the man, his bony fingers would fit perfectly around that stout neck but he kept it in. He held back, failing to keep all the rage, all the disgust from his voice but managing to keep it calm to keep it considered.

"But-"

"Doctor Watson why don't you answer me this, if the man you thought I was earlier, the man who helped you with your computer and found your lost cat and came through in your wife's hour of need asked you for _Harrys_ hand in marriage instead, what would you have said? And _please_, be honest sir."

John's father's bottom lip quivered and he stared down at John. The doctor was looking up now his face the epitome of shock but it changed when his father looked at him and his mouth went in a thin white line and his eyes burned his fathers gaze and Simon puffed out his chest looking back at the detective.

"I would have said yes, but that is diff-"

"So because I intend to marry your **son** instead it is suddenly _wrong_? I am suddenly a bad person?"

"I- You..."

"Perhaps Doctor Watson, Mrs. Watson, perhaps you need to re-evaluate your views. I think you would find them outdated, bigoted and with respect completely and utterly **wrong**."

"Now see here, you can't just come in here lie to me, lie to my wife and expect to be allowed to tell me what is right and wrong."

"Funny, I thought I just did."

He had his arms crossed, smirking down at the man and he heard a scrape as Johns chair was flung backwards and the doctor was on his feet. "**Sherlock**." His voice was haggard and the detective took two steps away from Simon and turned, his anger, his cocky confidence melted away and he crouched slightly peering into Johns eyes with his hands clasped in front of him, begging. _Pleading_ .

John looked at him calmly, he had a tiny frown on his face and he seemed to be searching for something in his eyes. Sherlock wasn't sure if he found it but the doctor looked away from him and back to his parents.

"Mum, dad...this isn't how I wanted you to find out and this isn't how I wanted things to be but I love you and if I am going to get married then... I just want you there okay? I know how you feel about Harry and how you are probably feeling about me right now and you know what, if you can look past that and can find it somewhere deep in your hearts to give me this last thing before you cut me from your life, well, I could only give you my gratitude."

John glanced up at Sherlock and blinked before turning stiffly to walk out of the door down the hall and out of the house. Sherlock stood in the wake of his speech and glanced at the Watsons, huddled together on the opposite side of the kitchen and he walked forwards, cocky again, taking a post it note from the pile on the unit, writing Mycrofts number on it and slapping it on the fridge, making them flinch, before turning to leave. He looked at them and felt his anger bubble again, his face stony as they both stared back at him.

"If you change your minds."

He didn't go back upstairs for his clothes and he didn't leave the house. He hovered in the hallway for a few minutes, dreading what was to come. Eventually he reached for the door and quickly stepped outside like ripping off a plaster. The air was bitterly cold and the rain hadn't stopped. He listened to the hiss as it hit the pavement and sucked in a deep breath. His swagger left him and he sagged, he was so tired and his head hurt and all he wanted was to be back at work, back with John.

He made his way up the road a little and a black car swept around the corner ahead sliding effortlessly alongside. The door flew open and Sherlock didn't hesitate before he hopped inside, pulling the door closed on the deathly silent occupants. He didn't look at the doctor, he could feel the rage pouring off him and he certainly didn't look up at Commander Becker, the man tutting under his breath. If there was anyone to fear upsetting it was the man who was charged with keeping him alive.

He fell asleep when they reached the motorway, knees pulled up as he dug his heels into the expensive leather of the car seat to spite his brother. He felt anger, impotent rage, although he couldn't pinpoint the exact cause of it. Was it residual anger from his interactions with John's parents? From his near drowning? Or was it that he had tried to do something good, something nice for his fiancée and the entire thing had backfired on him? Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and let his head rest against the window watching water trickle sideways across the glass as they sped along. This was why he never did the emotional relationship things. He always messed up.

He was back in the swimming pool. He knew it was coming, he knew the tide would begin to swirl around him any second and those tense seconds seemed to stretch for eternity until his skin began to itch with anticipation and he fingers threaded his hair, nails digging into his skull.

Why hadn't it happened yet? Where was the flood?

He took a faltering step forwards and it echoed around him bouncing off the cold white tile and Sherlock blinked because now he could see him. John stood on the edge so far away and yet he could see every minute detail on his face and every cold slow blink as he stare down at Sherlock.

When the water finally came it was almost a relief, a sigh escaping his body until the torrent began to fling him around and he struggled to find the surface and the water was dark and muddy and he was being swept down the river faster than he could think and he saw the bridge ahead and John was leant over the side and he caught his eyes in gasping panting flashes when his head broke the surface and he reached out and tried to call for help but John didn't save him.

Not this time.

He was swept past the bridge and something fell in his chest as he chocked and gasped on the burning water in his lungs and the two men appeared beside John on the bridge and Sherlock screamed out but it was too late and everything faded to black.

He awoke to the clunk of a car door.

John was out of the car so fast Sherlock didn't even see him enter Baker Street. That left him alone with Becker; a tense moment in which they shared eye contact in the rear view mirror before Sherlock was out and away, skidding on the slick pavement as he rushed to follow his fiancée inside.

There were more guards here, security had clearly been beefed up and now two comfortable chairs (Obviously put there by Mrs. Hudson.) and a side table with a tray of drinks and piles of paper with neat notes and orders both written down in scratchy scrawls and printed out in formal lines. (Again Mrs. Hudson and handwritten notes from Lestrade, printed out from Mycroft. Oh god, an alliance.) Sherlock hesitated in the doorway as John talked to the two new men.

He eyed them from the corner, one tall and thin with almost vertical brown hair and dark brown eyes, his face was cracked in what seemed like an eternal smile and he leant on the table somewhat shielding his partner. He listened to what John had to say intently as though he really cared, arms crossed as he leant his head towards him. His partner was a more nervous looking man with curly hair, blue eyes, and bruised red lips which he licked self consciously. He was crouched in the comfortable chair and when he looked at Sherlock for a second his eyes flitted away nervously.

Sherlock could feel the walls closing in on him and he turned to rush up the stairs, aiming to return to his leather sofa and his solitude for a while. What he got however was quite different.

"You _bastard_!"

A fist to his nose and Sherlock was flung on his back by the unexpected force of the blow. He lay crouched on the floor clutching his bloody face and blinking up at Harry.

"What the hell do you think gives you the right to talk to our parents? What gives you the right to disappear for days and make everyone think you had been killed in a fucking train crash!"

She was stood over him gesturing wildly and Sherlock scooted himself into a sitting position. "Train crash?"

She paused and looked down eyeing him suspiciously. "Tell me you knew about the fucking train crash?"

Ah that went some way to explaining John's strange behaviour and the sheer magnitude of his anger. Perhaps another failed assassination attempt, perhaps sheer coincidence, still he was glad that he had changed trains at the last minute. "No I did not."

"What the hell is going on in here!"

John was back. Sherlock felt hands on the back of his shirt and he was yanked to his feet, the doctors considered gaze trawling his face, inspecting the damage. He reached out and pressed on the detective's nose in an oddly gentle manner and Sherlock (despite himself.) leant into the touch. John's eyes widened and he looked up at him with a soft expression for a second before the shutters came down and he was back to careful neutrality.

"Sherlock, go wash up. Get some sleep. If you wake up with a temperature, dizziness, headaches, _anything_ you tell me. God knows what you picked up in that river. Got it?"

Sherlock nodded blindly and John turned away from him, slightly staggered in his movements. He paused there for a second catching Harry's still furious eye before turning unsteadily on his heels and making for the bathroom upstairs.

He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He was waiting for John to come to bed. He knew he was waiting for something that wasn't likely to happen. Sherlock huffed and flung his arms out glaring at the window. Rain pattered against the glass and he watched it trickle down, the only sounds he could hear the hammering of his heart and the roaring storm outside. Lightning flashed over the houses and Sherlock sat up. He couldn't sleep, every time he closed his eyes he would hear the waters rush and he would jerk his eyes open.

So he sat on the edge of the bed and reached out to touch the cold window pane, he stood and pressed his body against it, the cool damp spreading through his t-shirt and soothing against his forehead. His chest still hurt and yet like this he could relax a little and so he stood for hours with his body pressed to the glass, eyes peering out as the storm raged on. Eventually the night sky lightened only slightly, dark clouds overhead and he cracked the window open a little smelling the clean fresh scent of rain in the air and listening to the faint murmuring of a radio in a house nearby. Sherlock sighed and peeled himself away, taking off his t-shirt leaving him in just a pair of long blue pyjama pants, his skin goose-pimpled but he didn't care.

He made his way downstairs ad wandered out into the living room. John was asleep in his chair, half a cold mug of tea on his side unit and a book lay open on his legs as he slumped, neck exposed, snoring softly. Sherlock frowned. He felt guilty. He treaded softly and made his way over to the doctor reaching out to slide a hand over his jaw and down his neck before leaning in a and pressing a soft almost not there kiss to the doctors forehead. It did little to ease the pain in his chest and Sherlock quickly withdrew his hand slinking back to perch on his chair. He stared at the doctor and scrabbled around his chair to find his violin case, pulling the instrument out and closing his eyes to quietly pluck the song he had played that brilliant morning.

The day after John had proposed. The happiest day of his life.

Sometime later he felt movement in front of him and finished the song slow and sweet opening his eyes and blinking rapidly. John was on his way into the kitchen. "John?"

He froze in the doorway and his shoulders stiffened. "Sherlock."

He didn't know what to say. So he said what he thought John would want to hear. "I am sorry."

The doctor didn't reply and Sherlock carefully placed his violin down, unfurling his legs from the chair and made his way across to the doctor. He placed a hand on Johns arm and the doctor spun around knocked his hand away. He began walking forwards and Sherlock took four steps backwards. "Do you even understand what you _did_?"

"I-I was just trying to do something nice for you I-"

"No. Don't you **dare**. This was not about me, it was _never_ about me."

Sherlock gaped and John pointed at him, furious. He didn't know what to think but he felt bile rise in his throat and he couched away slightly from the doctors gestures. He didn't want to fight with him. "This was about showing everyone how you can manipulate people, showing off how fucking impressive you are. This was about you meddling in every part of me Sherlock, even the parts I told you were off limits. You had no right and don't you dare act like this was a big misunderstanding. You knew exactly what you were doing."

Apparently not and yet he still felt anger rise in his chest and he tilted his head trying to appear cold but probably failing. "I thought that is what this whole marriage ting is about. No secrets, every part of me is yours John. I was just trying to-"

"I don't care what you were trying to do. You could've been killed!" Sherlock spluttered indignantly and opened his mouth to argue but John was still talking. "And don't you dare say you weren't in any danger. What the hell were you thinking! You left without your phone, without telling anybody where you were going, without any warning. You could have been killed and I would never have known what happened to you! You were bloody lucky I was coming across the bridge when you went in."

"It was meant to be a surprise." He shouted, defiant, like a child and John seemed to slump for a second and he stared into Sherlock eyes for a long moment.

"What?"

"I left all my things behind and all that because it was supposed to be a surprise. I wanted to do something for you for a wedding present and I thought you would never get around to it yourself and it was obvious how much you wanted them there...I just wanted your parents to like me John, I wanted them to understand tha-"

He had his hands up in front of his face and John slapped them out of the way, reaching out and grabbing Sherlocks head and pressing himself up against his length. He kissed with ferocity biting and pulling and Sherlock gasped into the kiss trying to reach out for the doctor but Johns hands slid down and pressed his wrists into the wall behind them and Sherlock grunted as he collided with it, the doctor following though until the detective was pinned against the wall completely. John's hot breath across his face and for a moment the doctor rested his face against Sherlocks neck, breathing in deeply before he launched himself away from the wall and spun around panting heavily. He didn't look at Sherlock and the detective waited but John just turned and walked away, stamping upstairs without a word leaving Sherlock cold, alone and painfully hard.

He didn't know what to do, he didn't understand what had just happened and so he slowly crept upstairs to hear the shower running. He sighed and walked quickly past the bathroom door to change before rushing back downstairs, grabbing his dream diary, his laptop and his phone. He stuffed everything into his coat pockets and made for the door finding Commander Becker blocking his path.

"Where are we going?"

He looked up.

"Hmm 200B."

"Right."

Molly noted down the detectives estimation and moved forwards with the colour cards to make her own judgement. She held the card to Becker's bare skin and he sucked in a breath, she blushed and stammered, hands shaking as she noted her confirmation in the notebook with a pencil. Sherlock walked back across the room and raised the gun again, the commander waiting for Molly to stand clear before tensing his stomach muscles and wrapping his arms around his back.

"She-What the hell!"

The detective lowered the gun and peered over his support to blink at Lestrade and John in the doorway. Becker blushed and went to replace his shirt only to find it missing. He wrapped his arms around his front self consciously instead.

"I am conducting an experiment."

"Oh my god, have you been _shooting_ him!"

John brushed past Lestrade and walked to Becker, inspecting the darkening bruises on his chest and stomach. He tutted and looked over to Sherlock.

"I was checking the relative colourings of a rubber bullet shot from different distances. Commander Becker has the correct skin tone and explained that he is able to withstand a significant amount of pain. He did not object. I didn't force him to do it."

John looked at the commander and Becker smiled sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders. John sighed and stood form where he had been kneeling. "You don't get paid enough."

"Oh Mr. Holmes pays me more than enough doctor." John smiled his hand on the commander's arm and Molly squeaked in the corner. Lestrade laughed in the doorway, crossing the room to help her off the floor where she had fallen in her flailing excitement. He also retrieved the commanders' shirt. Molly blushing fiercely and determinedly not looking back at Becker walked to Sherlock side.

"Um I had better get back-"

"Yes. Thank you Molly."

She smiled widely at the detective and left the notebook and pencil next to where Sherlock had laid his coat before waggling her fingers at Becker and scurrying out of the door blushing lightly but with a wide smile on her face."Goodbye John, detective..._commander_."

"She seemed happy..." Lestrade blinked as she scurried out of the door, handing Beckers shirt over. The commander laughed.

"Molly has a big date tonight."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and leant against the wall next to Becker. "Oh yeah? She tell you that?"

"She wouldn't shut up about it." Sherlock was grumbling and everyone glared at him. He was messing with the gun just to give his hands something to do and so he didn't have to look at John. "So why are you here?"

John frowned and crossed his arms. "Do I have to have a reason?"

Sherlock laughed bitterly and peered over his stand to raise an eyebrow at his fiancée. Or at who he hoped was_ still_ his fiancée. "You're not exactly my biggest fan right now John."

John scoffed "No Sherlock that will always be Molly." Sherlock didn't look back at them he instead opened his email client on his laptop and began writing to his client. There was a long moment of silence before Lestrade spoke. He fully intended not to listen. After all, if he was going to a pariah he might as well act as one.

"We found Moran." Well that got his attention alright.

They were just around the corner from a row of quiet terraced house not two blocks from Baker Street. Lestrade and Becker were sat in the front seats and 'John and Sherlock in the back with Anderson pressed up against Sherlocks left side. The entire ride over he had been complaining about having to sit next to the detective, and why was he involved anyway. "I am not exactly thrilled about this situation either Anderson and anyway I told you. You are the only one either Moran or any of his agents haven't seen yet."

"I don't want to go to some mad mans house and knock on the bloody door."

"Careful Anderson, your yellow belly is showing." Sherlock smirked as the man next to him spluttered and elbowed him in a not at all secretive fashion. Lestrade shouted over their bickering as Becker pulled them into the parking space.

"Oi! Stop it, _both_ of you. Anderson, you are here because that man is a very dangerous criminal and can lead us to an even more dangerous criminal and our job is to catch these criminals. So you are going to get out of the car, go up to the door and ask for Mr. Moran. Got it?"

"But-"

"And you will be perfectly safe because Commander Becker here will be standing just around the corner listening in. Okay?"

Anderson sagged in his seat and Sherlock didn't even try to hide the smirk on his face. He was so Lestrades favourite. He was too busy being smug to realise both Anderson and Becker had already left the car and he quickly jumped out. "Hey, I never said you were going! Sherlock!"

The detective turned on his heel and bent down, wobbling slightly, he still hadn't eaten today and his brain ached but he was running on adrenaline so he pressed a finger to his lips and smirked at the DI's indignant spluttering. He joined Becker at the wall and the commander let him stand closest to the edge, listening intently for Anderson's voice. He could hear him psyching himself up and fought a snigger. Anderson took slow hesitant steps up to the doorway and Sherlock listened for the dull thump of his knuckles of the door. There were a tense few minutes until the door clicked open and he heard a familiar voice.

"Ah I see the_ fun_ has arrived."

"T-The fun?"

"Your first time? Oh well come in. Don't worry I'll be kind to you...at first."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Becker who frowned sternly. "Ki—Kind?"

"How far do you go? He did tell you what is expected of you right?"

There were a few moments of spluttering and a panicked gasp before the door clunked closed. Anderson had been taken inside. Sherlock turned and Becker signalled for Lestrade and John to join them. "Well?"

"This is definitely his house."

Lestrade gestured for the commander to come to the car to discuss tactics leaving Sherlock alone with John. The doctor was frowning at the space just over the detective shoulder and Sherlock reached out to touch his arm. "What is the plan here Sherlock? What are we doing?"

"We are catching the man responsible for hurting us."

John blushed lightly and looked up at him. "Us? I don't remember you getting stabbed."

He said it in an oddly shy small voice and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. The doctor wasn't kidding anyone. "John you are well aware of the effect you being indisposed has on me."

"I know." He sighed and leant towards Sherlock and pressed a hand to his heart almost as thought he wasn't thinking about anything but that and Sherlock smiled putting his own hand on Johns shoulder.

"Does this mean you still want to marry me?"

John raised both his eyebrows and his fingers clenched on Sherlocks chest. He felt more stable now than he had in weeks and yet his limbs felt useless, like they had a mind of their own. He looked oddly offended. "Sherlock, you listen to me. I love you. Do you remember what I said to you that morning when Irene came?"

Silly question. "Yes. You said forever is a long long time but right now I can't see myself leaving you and I know that the things we have seen, the things we have been through, they have been some of the worst things I have ever had to... well it hasn't been easy on either of us and we are still here. Nothing that has happened has changed how I feel about you or this relationship and I can't think of a single thing that would. So forever might be a long time but-"

John had stood in amazed silent for a short while but finally came back to himself and cracked a smile. "Sherlock! Sherlock. Okay, I get it. You were listening." Sherlock smiled and nodded and John sighed tilting his head. "So you understand."

He thought about it. "You still love me."

"Yes and...?"

"And you still want to marry me?" He tried not to sound hopeful. John shook his head.

"Yes Sherlock, sadly I don't there will be a time when I don't want to marry you."

It was Sherlocks turn to frown but he never got to ask what was so bad about that because Lestrade and Becker were back. "Becker is going to take the back entrance whilst John and I go ahead on the front." Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but Lestrade was already shaking his hands at him. "Look, I shouldn't even be authorising a raid with only one official police officer present but you were almost drowned last night and frankly you would just get in the way."

Sherlock glared at him but the other men were already moving away.

They crouched outside the front door, Lestrade right at the front with John close behind and Sherlock crouched behind them on the step. After a minute there were the faint sounds of a commotion at the back of the house and Lestrade slammed his fist up against the door a few times shouting out police but nobody answered and John made his way forward kicking the door open. They made their way down a tight hallway and into a lavish living room. Anderson was sat primly on a sunken leather sofa holding a whiskey and nervously inching away from Moran who was stood just across the room from him, leant on the fireplace. Sherlock wiggled his eyebrows at the blushing man and Anderson swallowed his drink with shaking hands.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Lestrade sighed from his position and vaguely gestured with his gun for Anderson to get up. "You can go now." He didn't need to be told twice slamming his glass down and pushing his way out of the house.

"Oh of course. I thought he was having an off night, the ones he usually sends are... of a higher class."

"He pays for your hookers? Novel."

"He looks after me."

Sherlock snorted and walked past John to pull at the curtains, the doctor inching into the room so Moran now had Lestrade and John pointing guns at him from his left and from directly in front of him. "Clearly." He gestured to the opulent house. "Buying you a house seems a bit extreme, he must have his reasons."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He was curious. What was it about this man that Moriarty found appealing enough to lavish him with so much. Was it possible that the man he so feared becoming, the monster, was it possible he too had someone he cared for? It seemed unlikely.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Moran put his own drink down and stood with hands on hips eyeing Sherlock suspiciously. "Why are you here?"

"Why are you trying to kill me? I left your little operation alone for the time being."

Moran lifted an eyebrow. "I haven't authorised any action involving you or your-" He glanced to John and quirked a eyebrow with a smirk. "_Friends._"

Sherlock frowned as John scoffed, he was probably lying. It would be fitting with his behaviour...but then...

"Sebastian Moran you are under arrest." Lestrade spoke up and Moran sighed and lifted his palms up titling his head sarcastically. Odd that he would concede defeat so easily but then, Moriarty could probably afford a pretty good lawyer.

"Oh no you caught me."

Lestrade moved around the man and Sebastian sidestepped his way to the door, Sherlock walking up beside him. He was too focussed on analysing what the man had aid to notice the bulge in his pocket before it was too late and the cold metal of the pistol was against his temples.

"Nobody move."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Okay wow, I'm so very sorry this took so long but I was busy with decorating/exams blah blah stuff you don't care about. I am sorry though! Thank you to everyone who reviewed despite my absence, you really helped motivate me to finish this chapter, and sorry again but it's another cliffy. Oh how I do love a cliffy though.**

Okay, so everything hadn't gone to plan. Sherlock blinked slowly not showing an inch of fear and leant into the gun, Moran's eyebrows raising the tiniest fraction. "You would really shoot me? _Me_? Now I don't think your boss would like that would he?" Moran pushed back and Sherlock felt John tense a little but he seemed outwardly cool. Lestrade looked furious, his eyes cold and his hand shaking a little. Not John though, Johns hand was as steady as ever. Good man.

"Are you willing to take that risk?"

"Absolutely."

"No, he would be pleased. He wants you dead."

"Really? If he wanted me dead he would've managed it by now. No, I think this has all been you Moran."

The man didn't speak but his hand tightened on the gun handle and he pressed just a little harder. (He was sure to bruise at this point.) Sherlock wasn't sure where he was going with this but the little voice far far back in the deep recesses of his mind told him that Moriarty wasn't behind all the attempts. There was something different at play here and perhaps...just perhaps... "Jealous are we?"

Moran took a definite step forwards hand sliding a little as sweat began to build up in his palms. He seemed to be battling something and Sherlock smirked, turning to block both Lestrade and John from the man, essentially pushing Moran backwards into the hallway and standing in the door so he couldn't go anywhere else. The gun was still pressed to his head and he could feel John inching towards him. A flicker of light in the hallway and Sherlock grinned.

"Jealous that he enjoys the games? All those puzzles? He thinks we are the same, an identical pair, two halves of a puzzle, _meant to be_-"

Moran was screwing his face up when sirens suddenly blared outside and he glanced to the side for a split second. Long enough for commander Becker to turn the corner of the stairs, run up and punch him so hard in the face that he flew a good two feet down the hall before dropping unconscious to the floor. "Wonderful timing as ever commander." Sherlock took two lavish steps and toed the unconscious mans waist. He didn't stir. "And commendable aim."

Lestrade raised his hands as several police officers burst into the hallway and spread through the house. "Alright everyone outside. Commander, mind giving me a hand with Mr. Moran here?"

The man was groaning, beginning to come back to himself and Lestrade raised his eyebrow in one of those expressions Sherlock assumed meant something. He never did pay attention to these things, so over complicated. Becker raised his eyebrows too and gave both Sherlock and John a strange look before striding away and bodily grabbing Moran off the floor.

This left them alone; the detective being tugged gently back into the living room as police officers swarmed the house pulling various men and half dressed woman from every crevice. John was silent for a long time before his fingers twitched and in the same instant that he reached forwards just a tiny bit Sherlock reached backwards without looking and grabbed his hand.

John exhaled. Sherlock inhaled.

"Can't give me one day can you." Sherlock raised an eyebrow and turned a little still not looking at Johns face, just allowing him to see the confusion in his own eyes. "Well, yesterday you almost drowned; today you tried to get a man to shoot you in the head. I am going to end up dying of worry related stress."

He couldn't believe it. (Both what he was seeing and what he was hearing. A strange occurrence.) John was speaking softly, clearly joking but with a tinge of sadness to his tone that implied he really was worried about the detective and Sherlock didn't know how to react.

So he froze.

"It is not my fault a maniac is trying to kill us John. These things happen to me, you knew this before you asked me to marry you."

"That I did. But still, _every_ day? Bit much."

"I'll try to lessen the frequency."

"Good. Thank you."

Sherlock smiled because John's hand was slightly too tight on his fingers but was warm and strong and he hadn't let go. He seemed like he had forgiven the detective. "Does this mea-"

"This doesn't mean I forgive you. But I would like to get past that particular incident so I am declaring an embargo on discussing it. We can talk about what you did when we are safe."

"Oh. Okay" Worked for him. Sherlock was turned completely around now and Johns face was so very close to him. He hadn't kissed him, not properly not in the way that made his chest ache and his fingertips tingle, in so long and he couldn't stop staring at his lips. He really _really_ wanted John to kiss him like that again...

"Sherlock?"

He jerked way from the doctor as Lestrade burst back into the room. He glanced between them and raised an eyebrow. "Sorry if I'm interrupting but you have to clear the house." Sherlock nodded and John tugged on his sleeve leading him outside into the street without looking up. They stood off to the side watching the trails of men and women being pushed out of the house and collected in the back of police vans. That was when Sherlock realised Moran was all alone, locked in the cage in the back of a van all of his own.

Completely unsupervised.

He was grabbing Johns arm and dragging him along before he could really think about it and he pushed the doctor into the driving seat before running around the other side and hopping into the passenger seat. John just looked at him with his eyebrows furrowed. "Uh...Sherlock..."

"Drive."

"_What_! No!"

"John. Drive."

He made sure to maintain eye contact until John went a delightful shade of red and something clicked behind his eyes, mouth setting in a firm line for a second before he snorted out a breath and reached for the keys. He seemed almost gleeful and the engine roared into life and Johns lips slowly trenched into a wicked grin as they pulled away from the house.

Sherlocks phone was ringing as John wove them in and out of traffic, refusing to use the sirens despite his fiancée's insistent requests. In the back of the van Moran was sitting silently his eyes burning into the back of Sherlocks head. "So, what exactly is the plan here?"

"I don't have one."

John smacked his head against the driving wheel. "Lestrade is going to kill me, and then he is going to come for you."

"I can take him."

He couldn't help smirking and when John laughed Moran snorted at the two men. The detective turned around and glared at him. "If I were you I'd be quiet. You're not under police protection right now." The man just raised an amused eyebrow and turned to stare out of the window. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, he didn't like Moran's confidence, he should be worried. Scared even, after all he was being driven away from relative 'safety' to an unknown location by two men who suspected him of attempted murder and were not hard pressed to retaliate.

He watched the man arch his back a little as though his only worry was the uncomfortable seating in the transport van. Sebastian sniffed and scratched his knee, almost deliberately nonchalant as he reached out to hold the wire of the small cage he was sat in, shifting on the hard metal bench and stared, seemingly fascinated, out of the window. His false composure was broken when John drove rather violently over a speed bump causing everyone to jolt in their seats. Moran let out a low gasp of surprise and winced cupping his cheek with his eyes closed. "Hurt does it?"

The eyes opened and Moran didn't remove his hand. His cocky indifference forgotten, replaced by a pained and sulky expression. "Yes actually. Rather unnecessary don't you think?" Sherlock didn't say anything. He would have probably killed him if he had been in Beckers place. Frankly it was a gift that it wasn't Sherlock, John's lifeless form back in that hospital bed, not knowing if he had lost too much blood... Yes, Moran was very_ very_ lucky.

"Where are going to go?"

Stupid question. "Baker street."

"But... Lestrade will check there first."

"What Lestrade does is unimportant, after all this is not for his benefit."

John raised an eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder for a second before turning back to the road. "So you** do** have a plan then."

"No, but I have a theory."

_Moriarty_. This may not be the work of Moran but another man bewitched into working for Sherlocks rival, perhaps he had more than one prize, more than one Moran. Regardless he would have to take the risk that Moriarty didn't come after them, didn't try and rescue this man. Although simply catching Moriarty in the same room as him again wasn't the only aim here. He wanted to understand this; he wanted to know if Moriarty could feel for someone else like Sherlock cared for John. He had previously secured himself in the knowledge that what separated them, the monster and the detective, was that Sherlock despite his purposefully detached personality could still care.

If the monster cared it meant that he wasn't safe, he would always be in danger of becoming another Jim Moriarty.

This thought made his head ache and he looked over to John, his slightly anxious expression, pearly white teeth nibbling on a plump bottom lips as his eyes scanned traffic and then back to Moran who was still glaring, his eyes dull, mouth slack and he frowned. Even if the monster could care, he still didn't have John. Sherlock would always be okay because he had John. He smiled and they turned the corner into Baker Street skidding to a halt outside the flat. John sat with his hands still on the wheel and looked at Sherlock, calculating weighing up his words. Sherlock waited patiently.

"You think Moriarty is going to come here, come to the flat to get him back don't you?"

Sherlock nodded and John's hands tightened on the wheel. There was a tense moment of silence and the doctor jumped out of the driver's seat pulling his gun from his waistband and looking at his fiancée with a stern expression. "Right well, no going back now."

Sherlock let John take Moran out of the back of the van, standing at the front door as John's gun was pushed against Sebastian's back and he unlocked the door as they approached only to be greeted by the guards. Oh, he had forgotten about them. "Excuse us gentlemen." Sherlock stood in the way blocking the two men's view as John rushed past and up the stairs. "Uh, detective inspector Lestrade hasn't happened to ca-"

"He called yes. He is on his way over."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Well this was fine, he had less time to work with than he'd like but he was confident he could at least convince Lestrade to let him keep Moran until Moriarty turned up. However long that was. He turned away from the two men and made his way upstairs to the flat finding John handcuffing their captive to the heavy side table at the side of Sherlocks chair. He was thankful he hadn't put the man in his own armchair. Nobody was allowed to use John's things but him (And the doctor obviously.). The doctor made sure he was comfortable and trotted into the kitchen; the detective frowned and followed him speaking quietly so Moran wouldn't here. "What are you doing?"

"Making tea?"

"But..._why_?"

"Well Lestrade is on his way over and a cup of tea might calm him down a little as would showing him that we aren't trying to kill Moran, that we are keeping him comfortable. It might make it a little easier to convince him that keeping him here is a good idea."

Sherlock glared, what did it matter of Sebastian was comfortable; he could still be involved in Johns stabbing. There was a brief moment where both men stared defiantly at each other but Sherlock decided to concede if only because the doctor was now pushing a hot mug into his hands and so he returned to the living room to sit across from Sebastian, sipping his drinks and glaring over the rim. He had one leg elegantly posed over the other and his chin was pressed to his chest when John pottered into view placing a mug (One of the less nice pieces they had.) on the side table next to Moran and standing just over Sherlocks left shoulder. Moran raised a sarcastic eyebrow but Sherlock saw genuine surprise in his eyes before he reached out and lifted the tea to his lips taking a sip and blinking furiously at the taste. Sherlock smirked, Johns tea was always one of his best features.

"So what is this? Lulling me into a false sense of security so I spew out all the details? Good cop and even better cop?" Moran was trying to sound jovial but the detective caught the underlying uncertainty in his voice. He waited before answering, just long enough to keep the man on edge.

"So there _are_ details to spill?"

Moran snorted and rolled his eyes. "Even if there was, would I tell you?"

"I don't need you to tell me."

"Oh yeah, Sherlock Holmes the great detective." He snorted and slurped his tea. Sherlock ignored him; instead he took a long draught of his own drink staring at the pathetic creature across from him. There were so many details left to understand, he had no solid conclusions and he was taking an extreme risk in inviting Moriarty here. But he was confident it would clarify everything, he would finally know for sure who was trying to kill them. (He ignored the voice in his head telling him that it was already obvious, that he just didn't want to face the truth.) Suddenly the door burst open and Lestrade rolled in like an oncoming storm with his gun drawn and a fierce look of rage on his face. He took in the scene, Sherlock and his captive sat across from each other drinking from mismatched mugs of tea and John rounding the corner in surprise, fingers on his own weapon. There was a brief moment of perfect silence before Lestrade lowered his gun and put his hands on his hip. Every movement was laden with energy as though he was holding back from leaping across the room and strangling Sherlock.

The detective almost laughed.

He placed his tea down and steeped his fingers together peering over at him. He knew it would only anger the man more but he couldn't resist. "Detective inspector, have a good trip over?"

John let out a sigh but didn't move and Lestrade turned puce stamping forwards a little, viciously pointing his finger at the man. "What the hell were you thinking! That you could just drive off with a police van and expect me not to notice?"

"Don't be idiotic, of course I knew you'd follow. I merely judged it irrelevant."

"Irr_- Irrelevant_! You know what, this is it, I have given you too many chances I'm just goin-" John slipped in between the two men and lightly pressed Lestrade on the chest, backing him away from the doctors lover and towards the leather sofa.

"Greg, listen. You need to wait; after this is all over you can do whatever you want to him. I promise just, just please wait." Sherlock frowned opening his mouth to argue but John shot him such a stern look he relented and instead watched Lestrades face carefully. Lestrade looked at him for a long moment and then he looked back at John with his eyes narrowed, suspicious. "He had better have a damn good reason."

As soon as Becker had arrived back at the flat (Complete with his wrist wrapped stiffly. Apparently he had hit Moran hard enough to break a bone in his hand.) they had dragged Lestrade upstairs to the hallway outside their bedroom, not wanting to reveal Sherlocks various theories to their captive. The DI had followed reluctantly his eyes boring into the back of Sherlocks head and when they did stop he merely crossed his arms, waiting. Sherlock felt like a scorned child caught stealing sweets. He scowled. John rolled his eyes and prodded him in the side. "Well, what are you thinking?" He drew himself up to his full height and sniffed, they were going to be impressed. He knew it.

"Well there are three possibilities." He waited for a dramatic pause; Lestrade was looking at him oddly as though he had appeared in no clothes at the crack of dawn again. How disappointing, John however was staring at him patiently with a flicker in his eyes giving away his anticipation. See,_ he_ knew Sherlock would be right, _he_ knew Sherlocks theories were always brilliant. "First is that Moriarty is trying to kill us himself, although I do doubt this very much because in the past he has exhibited much more flair and quite frankly if it were him we would probably be dead by now. He wouldn't play dirty like this, he would at least give me clues, a message, _something_ to let me know it was him."

John scowled but the detective ignored him, pacing back and forth in the tight space. "Second is that Moriarty is helping another pet of his who is either being trained using us a dummies or is trying to impress their new boss by killing us and is doing a very poor job of it." He paused again, this time they both looked interested and he spun on his heel, turning his back to hide the smile that glanced across his features.

"Thirdly this is Moran's work, again to try and impress Moriarty or through jealousy of Moriarty and I and our relationship." John's eyebrows shot through the roof and Lestrade glanced to him giving Sherlock a strange look. He didn't know what it was supposed to mean but Johns scowl was so very dark right now that the detective turned towards him slightly and tilted his head. The look in his eyes said it all. "Of course it is a purely cognitive relationship, he enjoys creating puzzles I enjoy solving them." John lifted his chin but didn't say anything. Sherlock gritted his teeth. Ah, his relationship with Moriarty was obviously a bad thing to mention in future. He opened his mouth to explain when Lestrade interrupted. (He wasn't sure whether to be thankful or not but to err on the side of caution he decided simple relief was appropriate.)

"Is that it? Which one do you think is more likely?"

Sherlock raised a finger and dragged his eyes away from his angered lover to Lestrades pained expression. "I do not know."

"You don't know?"

Ugh, Lestrade was practically dense. Sherlocks energy began to wane and his bright expression dropped as he scowled at the man. "Well of course not. Otherwise I wouldn't have three theories would I?"

"No shit Sher-"

"So that is why we need to keep Moran here. To get Moriarty to show up and then Sherlock will know which it is. Right?"

Sherlock turned back to John who had interrupted and smiled. Finally someone who understood. "Precisely." There was a moment where they shared a smile before Lestrades phone interrupted them and the DI shooed them away with his hand so he could take the call. Sherlock and John walked down the stairs and into the living room together, unwittingly walking in on Commander Becker punching Moran in the face. John shouted his voice unexpectedly authoritative and it caused the commander to look up at him panting heavily with a mean look on his face.

"Commander!"

Becker took a step away from Moran and the man spat a mouthful of blood on to the floor glaring up at them with an evil glint to his eye. "Bit sensitive this commander of yours. I only happened to mention what a lovely little town his partner is deployed to. "

"You had better shut your mouth, if you even think of going anywhere nea-" Becker had stormed back across to him, grabbing the man by the shirt collar and shaking him viciously.

"Commander! Sherlock, please take Becker out would you."

The detective blinked, he hadn't expected being brought into this (In fact he was rather enjoying watching the commander teaching Moran a lesson.) but the stern look John was giving him left no choice and so he swept forwards grabbing Beckers sweater and pulling him towards the door and out of the living room. John stayed behind, probably to tend to Moran's wounds. Sherlock didn't know what to do with his hands and they took slow stuttering steps down into the hallway, the two guards at the door dismissed with a simple head tilt and hand gesture. Becker threw himself into the chair and wiped a hand across his brow. He didn't know what to say, the man was breathing heavily and was scowling at the floor and Sherlock looked away from him when the commander attempted eye contact. "I'm sorry Mr. Holmes." Sherlock didn't say anything and Becker let out a huff of air. He sounded sad, regretful. "It's just...he knows where my partner is deployed! I can't..."

Sherlock licked his lips surprised at his own mind. His first thought was that he understood. How strange.

"Where are Mummy and Mycroft?"

The commander was silent for a minute and Sherlock span back around raising an eyebrow. The other man smiled for a second before coughing and standing back to his usual posture. "I escorted them to Mr. Holmes office myself."

"Good. Can't have them hanging around, getting in the way." Becker smiled and Sherlock blinked at him weighing up his next words. "What reason did you-"

"I just told them there was security issue near here and that it was my impression that they should move to a more secure area for the time being. I omitted that this is ground zero for the security issue as courtesy sir." Sherlock grinned. He knew there was a reason he kept the commander around.

"Good, well commander you should stay here for now. Man the front door and don't let anybody inside without my permission. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir." Becker saluted him and turned to the door.

Sherlock was halfway up the stairs before he thought of Mrs. Hudson. "Oh and commander, Mrs. Hudson would also benefit from not being here." He didn't need her popping up in the middle of his showdown with Moriarty. Although...it _would_ be interesting. He chuckled imagining her offering him tea and biscuits. Back in the living room John was sealing a cut above Sebastian's eye with medical tape, the captive man squirming a little under his touch. Sherlocks expression darkened and he fought the jealously sparking within him. The doctor glanced up when he walked in and gave him a stern look and Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself.

Lestrade appeared behind him and clapped a hand down on his shoulder. Sherlock went ram rod straight. Since when did Lestrade think it was oaky for him to touch the detective? Well whatever his reasons Sherlock didn't like it. "That was Clarky. They need me back at that house."

"Right. Okay."

The hand was removed and Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Don't do anything stupid and Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"If he escapes I _will_ personally string you up okay?"

The detective didn't reply. There was a high likelihood that Moran would escape. He was not going to make the foolish mistake of promising anything. There was a tense beat and Lestrade was gone, his voice filtering up the stairs as he barked orders at Becker. John finished up and went to the kitchen to clean his hands leaving Sherlock to stare at their captive. "You need to excise more control over your employees." Moran was smirking at him, wincing slightly at the obvious pain he felt. Sherlock chuckled lowly and turned around to flop elegantly into his sofa, ankles crossed. He was thinking, thinking thinking thinking, trying to drown out that one singular sound at the back of his mind. That voice.

Hours flew by and Sherlock became only vaguely aware of movement in the flat, the soft voices as John watched his shows and Moran's bitter commentary. Some time later a warm plate placed on his chest. Sherlock nibbled at the sandwich, here a soft familiar mummer that urged him to eat more and so he focused on that for a while.

That voice was intangible, hovering on the edge but insistent like a splinter he couldn't find and couldn't ignore. He frowned and rolled over, feeling the wind across his neck.

He sat up to find himself in a wide open field, tall grass flowing and winding around him and the detective was confused. He didn't recognise this place and yet it felt so familiar, oddly saddening. That voice behind him and Sherlock turned to see him lying in the grass a foot away, hands behind his head feet splayed outwards as he stared at the unmoving sky.

"I used to come here when I was a kid."

"Oh. Let me guess, to escape the world around you? How touching."

The man didn't react to Sherlocks scorn; he just continued staring at the sky. Sherlock felt his stomach turn and he couldn't look anymore so he lay down too and joined in the quiet contemplation.

"Well it beats staying at home with an abusive drink father and a abusive drugged up mum."

"It's you isn't it, it has always been you."

"Of course it has Sherlock dear; you of all people should know that I am never quite finished."

"I hoped you were dead."

"Don't we all."

Sherlock awoke with a start. It was just a dream, a _nightmare_; he scowled at the ceiling and glanced sideways to see Moran watching him with an interested glint in his eye. He checked the clock, it had been hours. The detective flipped himself up so he was sat facing their captive and studied him carefully, the voice in the back of his mind almost screaming out for recognition and at once Sherlock decided just to see, just to entertain those dark thoughts for a moment. He suppressed a shudder and fixed Moran with a cold stare. "I have a theory about this you know."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes. Would you like to hear it?"

Moran raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms leaning back in his seat. Sherlock took this as an affirmative and leant his elbows on his knees bringing his fingers together in a steeple. "I think, in an effort to impress your boss and out of jealousy, you have attempted and failed to kill both me and John."

Moran looked smug, although he did uncross and cross his arms again and Sherlock knew he was close so he decided to push the man a little further. "At first I did believe it was Moriarty but then I realised he was no mindless thug and much less he certainly didn't do his own grunt work. Which obviously lead me to you-"

"What do you _mean_ **grunt **work?"

"Well a master criminal as sophisticated as Moriarty wouldn't attempt to kill people himself; he wouldn't get his hands dirty like that. No these attempts were obviously done by a common henchman like yourself. You lack the elegance and charisma required to get somebody else to do it for you."

"Yeah well, that's where you are wrong isn't it. Because it _was_ someone else, **I** heard about him, **I** searched for him, **I **helped him, **I** convinced him the only thing he had was his hatred for you. It was me all along pulling his strings, it was me who found B-"

The sound of breaking glass and both men froze turning to look at the kitchen door. He had been so close, his heart had been hammering in his chest and his mind had been a storm of fear and intrigue and adrenaline and it had all stopped at the crashing tinkling sound and then the tell tale crunch on expensive heel on broken glass.

"Tut tut love. We have been busy haven't we."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Oh my god, I am so so sorry this took so long and I just want to thank everyone who messaged me to check up on things. You really helped me to work through the writer's block. Okay this one is a biggie so I am going to have to split it into two parts. Hope you all like this one and I just want to apologise again. Thank you for all the reviews!**

"Tut tut love. We have been busy haven't we."

Moriarty stepped into the light with a very large, very shiny gun pressed against the back of John's head. He was wearing an expensive looking black suit and an open necked shirt. His skin was more tanned than usual and there were almost invisibly light marks where he had been wearing sunglasses, the slightly paler skin around his eyes making them seem all that darker as they glittered in Sherlocks direction. The man smirked and slid a hand through his hair, shaking his head with a soft laugh.

"Sherlock, so sorry for dropping in like this."

The detective tried his best to act natural and waved a hand in an almost flirtatious manner. "No no, not at all." He was careful to use just his peripheral vision to check on John, the doctor wearing a blank expression but with quick eyes that glanced Sherlock up and down and _there_, the barest twitch of his lips to let the detective know he was unhurt. Sherlock never looked away from Moriartys eyes and the odd two man tandem walked fully into the light. John was pushed towards the detective. So close and yet...

"I believe congratulations are in order?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing. His rival gave him a scathing look and sighed. "Oh come now, you really didn't expect news of your nuptials to reach me? Naive." Again he said nothing. He _had _expected it. (But then, he expected Moriarty to be fully clued up on everything Sherlock got up to. After all, he had been receiving reports from Mycroft about the other man for months.) Moriartys false smile dropped and he sniffed, pushing John roughly in the back of the head with the gun prompting him to jog away. The gun was still pointed at them and Moriartys finger was coiled in waiting on the trigger.

But for now at least, John was not in direct danger.

Sherlock didn't look at the doctor as he walked backwards to the desk. John's gun was in there. Unsurprisingly his actions were noticed by the gunman and those dark glittering eyes flickered from Sherlocks face to the doctors' outstretched fingers and back again. After a second Moriarty moved his own weapon, lifting to aim directly at the doctor's chest. "Move. Away." Each word poised and direct, an order. John froze for a second, a brief second in which nobody took a breath in anticipation for what he was to do next.

Would John dare to not move?

The moment seemed to slow until all action appeared to be in such a distant future Sherlock felt it would never happen. His heart thundered in his chest and he licked his lips unconsciously, cursing himself for giving away his discomfort, his emotion. He could only hope that his nemesis had been focussed on John, oh _John_. Sherlock was careful not move his gaze too quickly and he tried to focus, tried to wait out that fierce moment. John looked at Moran for moment before stepping away from the desk, side stepping his way to the sofa with his palms up. Sherlock felt his fiancé's weight rest beside him and then the warmth of a thigh against the detectives. He sighed and leant into it only a tiny bit, just enough to garner a response from John but not enough for anybody else to notice. Moriarty looked away from them and for the first time he looked at Sebastian.

Sherlock watched his face intently for any sign of emotion for any indication that he cared for the man. His skin was pricking and his face felt hot. Sherlock was terrified, horrified all of sudden at the idea that the monster could love. He was furious with himself, for allowing his perfectly focussed mind to be so swamped with emotion, with a hundred different sentiments which whizzed and popped behind his eyes filling his throat until he could barely swallow.

Moriartys face remained as still and cold as marble and when he walked towards Moran, reaching out to slide his hands into the man's hair Sherlock took a shivery breath. Moran reacted instantly to his bosses touch, titling his head and pressing towards his master's palm like an attention starved kitten. Moriartys eyes didn't change but his mouth curled in a smug grin and then an eyebrow rose as he (Surprisingly.) gently tilted the man's head, running a thumb over his eye socket and examining his wounds. Moran was staring at him with such reverence, such desperation that Sherlock had to look away.

It was frightening to see what could become of strong men who give way to their emotions.

His mind began a mad scramble, would Sherlock, _could_ Sherlock fall that far? Would he be devastated by his love for John, would it consume him too leaving him weak, pathetic, petty like Moran? He shuddered at the thought and Moriarty sighed dragging his hand back to grasp the lovesick mans hair tightly, yanking his head back. "You know, I am very disappointed in you. There I was just coming back from a short...holiday-" His eyes slipped to Sherlocks and he smirked for a second before returning his gaze to the captive. Sherlock didn't speak but he noticed the almost manic glint in Moriartys eyes when he looked at Sherlock. His gaze would come alive when he looked at the detective, retuning to a blank empty mask when he looked down at the man so desperately striving for his attention. "-Expecting to find my second in command waiting faithfully at the exit lounge. What do I find instead? A message that you have taken the opportunity my..._excursion_... lent you, to cavort with some pathetic wannabe?"

Moran's face dropped and he shifted in his chair, his eyes pleading and panicked. "But you said, you said you admired initiative. That was what I was doing I was just trying...recruitment. New methods of disposal! That was all."

Moriarty licked his lips and paused for a second, John taking the opportunity to tense his muscles, perhaps about to make a run for the weapon? Sherlock tensed too, there was no way he could tell him to stop without the gun man seeing so it was better he prepared for action too. But he did see them, eyes not moving from his second-in-command's face as he waggled the gun and pointed it at Johns head.

"Ah ah ah, stay where you are doctor."

John cursed under his breath and Moriarty leant down a little dragging his fingers over Moran's chest lazily as he peered intently at the man's face. "Now **Seb**, I know you. Remember? I found you; I discovered _what_ you are, _who_ you are. You were lost weren't you?"

"Yes. I was I was so lost without you."

"That's right, and when everyone else looked at you and saw a ruthless killer, a mindless tool to be used I saw what you really were, I stopped you from turning your hunger on them didn't I? Stopped you becoming the weapon they would come to regret, they would call a monster."

Sherlock kept his face still as the smirking mans gaze slid over his features, watching his lips form the word he hated so intensely. **Monster**. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and forced himself to clear his mind. Moriarty returned his attention to his serf and lifted an eyebrow expectantly. Moran almost fell over himself to answer. "Yes you saved me. You helped me get out."

"I did so, tell me, what in _god's green earth_ makes you think that you could lie to me?"

Moran had began to smile, nodding along as Moriarty stared at him, grinning and patting his chest but that smile dropped instantly and now he looked terrified, ashamed and his gaze flickered to the right, to Sherlock. It was quick but it was unmistakable. The detective knew he wasn't the only one who caught it and Moriarty reached up grabbing Moran's chin to turn his head to look at him. The normally cold man's gaze flickered for a second as his eyes made contact with Moran again and he all but danced around the chair to stand imposing almost straddling his followers' legs. He leant in, his eyes searching the wounds in front of him and Sherlock couldn't breathe because he could have sworn (And he certainly wasn't a expert at spotting these things.) that if only for a second there was an air of tenderness between the two men before Moriarty swung backwards and yanked the desk drawer open, reaching in for Johns gun. Sherlock felt an irrational jolt of disgust as the weapon was handled by his rival and felt his fiancé tense beside him.

"Doctor, please release him." John didn't move and the gunman raised an eyebrow waggling his weapon in the air and tilting his head. "Release Sebastian now."

John got up and walked to the chair, pulling the handcuff key from his shirt pocket and releasing Moran without taking his eyes off of the gun.

"Excellent. Thank you."

Moran stood up and looked down rubbing his wrist before strutting up to his boss and sliding his hand around his waist. The gunman smirked and looked to Sherlock as if expecting some sort of reaction from him, his eyes narrowed when Sherlocks face didn't change. He seemed almost disappointed and licked his lips as Moran pulled a second gun from the back of Moriartys waistband. John stayed stock still in his position at the back of the chair as Moriarty walked around to him twirling on his heels to stand behind him, arm sliding too slowly, too languorously around Sherlocks fiancés neck. He forced himself to relax; he didn't want to give his rival the pleasure of seeing him worried about John.

Not again, not like last time.

He tugged and Moran walked lazily after the two man tandem as they backed towards the stairs, Sherlock finally got to his feet and followed them. There was a scrape of boots on wood and a thump and Sherlock rounded the corner to watch Moriarty and John hobble backwards out of 221B closely followed by Moran who sneered as he stepped over the crumpled body of Becker. Sherlock could see the commander's gun kicked far down the hall under the small unit Mrs. Hudson used to store her magazines and the unconscious man had a growing lump on his forehead as well as a obviously broken nose. Sherlock followed them out into the street, losing the will to stop himself from running down the last few stairs and across the pavement. On the other side of the road Moran had climbed into the back of a heavy looking black saloon car leaving Sherlocks rival to wait alone.

Sherlock froze as Moriarty smirked at him, twisting the gun against the doctor's neck. "It's a shame Sherlock. This was not how I intended things to end."

He was fiddling with something behind Johns back; Sherlock couldn't see and when he tried to inch towards them a little more the car window rolled down to reveal the driver. He was enormous with curly black hair and surprisingly warm brown eyes that twinkled in the streetlights as he pointed his own gun directly at Sherlocks heart. The detective didn't move, he didn't know what Moriarty had planned and he didn't know how those plans had changed and he was furious. He should've been able to work this out, he knew Moriarty better than anyone, perhaps better than the man knew himself and yet he couldn't _think_. The pounding of his heart was so loud it almost seemed to echo in the empty street, darkness closed in around them and the air was cold, heavy with the smell of damp as though the rain was just aching to pour.

He couldn't think because John was stood in the arms of Jim Moriarty, the one that got away.

There was the sound of sirens in the distance and Moriarty sighed before pushing John roughly in the back propelling him across the road and disappearing inside the car all in one swift movement. Sherlock barely heard the screech of the tires on the tarmac before the drivers gun dropped from view, the window came back up and almost as though teleported the car vanished. John was back at his side in an instant and he didn't think before he grabbed the doctor's arm and yanked him forwards. John's breath was hot and rushed out in short fast pants against Sherlock's neck as he pulled him in as tightly as he could, he wanted to claim him back from the teasing, taunting hands of his rival. They only had minutes before Becker woke up, mere minutes before his mind would begin to run again hard and fast and he would no longer be able to stop the thoughts that terrified him. So he clung to John and his warm hands that slid up his back, the heat pushing through Sherlocks thin shirt and the slightly sweaty scent of the skin of his neck as Sherlock pressed his lips to the strong pulse beneath and to John's rough mouth as he kissed his mind blank.

It didn't last though and before long Becker had called in reinforcements and Sherlock was forced to sit through an angry speech by Lestrade unable to bring himself to care enough to even listen to the words being shouted at him from the furious pacing detective.

It all just seemed to mesh into one big incomprehensible noise that made Sherlocks head ache and the blank 'soldier' face John had on was making his stomach turn so he stared at his nails, picking at his cuticles until Lestrade stormed out. For a long time after the DI left he stayed where he was. He contemplated moving but the mere action involved seemed like too much; almost as if the recent events were weighing him down, pushing him back into the sofa and numbing his skin like a torrent of ice cold rain. So he stayed, for two days he stayed, he didn't eat, he didn't sleep, he was simply paralysed by his mind. Nothing else mattered but what he had seen, no matter how much he tried to force himself to think about the facts and the case and about finding Moriarty again, keeping John safe or even the details of his upcoming wedding (After all he _was_ becoming desperate at this point.) nothing, **nothing** could stop that one tender moment between Moran and Sherlocks rival from bursting through, the change in that mans cold marble face and the utter joy in his serf's eyes sent a chill through him that he couldn't forget.

Those two days went by in a blur; people came and went in the flat, Mummy visited for an hour just staring at her son when he didn't answer her questions barely touching the tea John made for her. Although, Sherlock did notice the strange expression they both wore when she asked how long he had been on the sofa and Mummy's almost affectionate smile when John explained that he wouldn't let it go too far. He had been momentarily distracted from his disturbing thoughts to try and remember any time when Mummy had looked at him like that. In the end and after hundreds of exasperated glances and almost constant air of irritation John finally stamped towards him, reaching out and wrapping strong fingers around Sherlocks arms and yanking them to break the detectives gaze.

"Hey, hey look at me."

So he did. John looked tired, purple streaks below his eyes and his lips were pressed together tightly and Sherlock fought to remember if John had slept at all. He wasn't sure, he had been so occupied by his owns thoughts.

"Look, I know this is what you do and that's fine but we still don't know what happened back there or why and-"

Sherlock had opened his mouth to express his theories but John clamped one hand over his lips, fingers still tightly circling his other wrist. "No, don't speak. I need you to get up now, you need to eat you need to sleep and most of all you need to shower. Get up."

He just stared and stared and stared unable to stop and break his own gaze on John's eyes. He couldn't look away from the train wreck of the pain in them; the way his pupils dilated as he tipped his head down and the tightness on the edges. Finally the doctor broke and threw Sherlocks own wrists at him, spinning on his heel and standing with his back to the detective, hands on hips but shoulders slumped. Sherlock didn't move.

"Dammit Sherlock." Johns voice was oddly low almost a whisper and as he walked away the doctor shook his head.

He got up and rubbed his hands on his legs, waiting for the doctor to look back but after a few minutes of silence he knew that was not going to happen. He wasn't sure what to do so he decided that the best option was to leave John alone. After all Lestrade always told him that 'space' was important in relationships. (It definitely had nothing to do with his desire to run away from ever having to talk about what had happened.) So he walked past John, hesitating as he walked through the door standing there just long enough for John to glance his way and the look in his lover's eyes made him jolt his gaze away in unexpected panic.

It was almost as though John knew what he was thinking about.

He walked shakily forwards and up the stairs and into the bathroom carefully stripping himself of his clothes before stepping into the shower. The water poured down his neck and chest and he stared in the hideous beige tiles at his own reflection. He was pale, eyes wild and dark against his sodden hair and as he looked back at himself it was almost as if he could remove his mind from his body and he thought about the look in John's eyes and he frowned because it was almost like meeting him for the first time all over again except there was no warmth, no spark of interest, of recognition. He had looked at John and had seen the cold disapproval he received so often from strangers. Sherlock frowned and turned his back on his own image, soaping his hair and closing his eyes. He remembered how easily John had been able to read what Sherlock was planning or the meaning behind his words. It was one of the doctor's traits that drew Sherlock to him, that made him feel such intense love for him.

He could pinpoint the moment the thought first popped into his head.

He couldn't remember exactly how he had got there but he was stood in the living room, dripping water and suds on the bare floorboards as John blinked back at him from the kitchen doorway. It barely registered that the new curtains John had picked out were still sealed in plastic packaging somewhere on the desk so his naked body would be clearly visible from across the street, or even that it had begun to rain the quiet consistent rushing noise and the chilled breeze pushing through the open windows. Sherlocks skin goose pimpled and he hunched over a little, almost caveman in his posture as he stared at John knowing he couldn't escape the nightmares anymore.

"It was never over."

John's eyebrows dropped in confusion and he tilted his head taking a short step forwards to reach a hand towards his fiancé. Sherlock sucked in a breath and suddenly he was back, he was in focus. The detective cocked his hip an crossed one arm over his chest resting the elbow of his other arm on top, finger to his lips as he began to strut back and forth, pacing to the throbbing beat of his mind.

"Sherlock? What...what are you tal-"

"Weren't you listening! It was never over! Isn't it _obvious_? I had allowed myself to run from this for too long John, well no more, I have accepted it as the truth."

"What truth? What are you on about? Jesus Christ Sherlock will you put on some pants and sit down for a second, you're scaring me."

Sherlock snorted and flicked the wet hair from his face. "What, more than usual?"

John almost smiled and approached the detective slowly gently prodding him towards the sofa. Sherlock sat and John grabbed the hideous patchwork quilt from his chair, throwing it over the still damp man. He gestured vaguely and Sherlock sniffed, the chill from his damp skin finally making some impact. He began to shiver.

"John, I know who was working with Moran, who was trying to kill us."

John stared for a moment and then looked down at his hands his voice nothing more than a whisper. "It's Bossley isn't it."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, he had been so wrapped up in his own fears he hadn't even considered that John had also made the connection between the mad man that had plagued them and the attempts of their lives. "How long have you known?"

"I have suspected it is him for a while but I was hoping you would tell me it was some _other _psychotic murderer you had put away years ago or something."

Sherlock felt...angry. He could feel indignant rage building in his chest like a chef slaving over a starter for a feast only to find that nobody had even tried the dish. It wasn't fair. He looked at John and tried to assess his state of mind. The doctors scrunched up face told him only that John was angry too, that John loathed that they couldn't avoid this anymore. "What are we going to do?" Sherlock didn't know how to answer that.

Mycroft appeared at the flat the next day, insistent on pushing along plans for the wedding almost as though if everyone focussed on that one day then they would forget that a seemingly omnipresent if ineffective assassin was still haunting the couple. He perched in Sherlocks chair with his umbrella resting on the red rug, constantly twitching hands forming a staccato beat that resonated dully across the floor to where Sherlock lay stretched out on the floorboards, expertly throwing darts up at the ceiling and catching them when gravity finally wrenched them loose.

Truth be told the older Holmes brother was sulking after Sherlock had pointed out that he was clearly more stressed about the situation than he would like them to believe as evidenced by him failing at his diet. He had tried to gloss over Sherlocks observations and had begun to pout when the detective pointed out the distinctive red bags from the pastries sold at Speedys (The small bakery downstairs. Delicious coffee.) that poked surreptitiously from the corner of his coat pocket and the crumbs on his collar only emphasising his guilt.

Sherlock smirked and sat up when John placed a mug next to his head. "So, before Sherlock interrupted you were saying something about suits?"

"Oh yes, obviously we already have your measurements but I will need Sherlocks best man's numbers..."

There was a long pause. Sherlock hadn't thought of that. He had forgotten John was taking Lestrade. He _desperately _didn't want to resort to Mycroft. Suddenly the answer appeared in the doorway with medical tape peppering his face, holding his broken nose straight and only accentuating the bruises around his eyes. What fantastic timing the man had. "Commander, what are your measurements?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and turned to look at an equally surprised Becker. "I believe they are already on file sir."

Sherlock sniffed and nodded. "There Mycroft, they are already on file."

"You asked your bodyguard to be your best man."

"You have a problem with that?"

Mycroft eyed his brother suspiciously for a moment before lifting his drink to his lips and shaking his head to indicate he didn't. Beckers confused eyebrows rose and he grinned walking further into the room. He bent down and reached for Sherlocks mug, "Do you mind?" Sherlock shook his head and the commander plopped down on the sofa, taking a sip of his tea.

He was still smiling.

There was a beep and Mycroft slid his phone from his pocket staring blankly at the screen for a moment before swishing to his feet. As his brother was apologising to John, blathering on about important issues he needed to take care of Sherlock titled his head to covertly listen to Becker as the commander leant forwards to whisper nervously to him. "Are you sure about this? I mean...I am honoured and everything but...you barely know me."

"Nonsense I know a lot about you. In fact-"

They were interrupted by a thump of Mycroft umbrella wincingly close to Sherlocks bare feet. "Since we already have the measurements you can entertain Mummy this afternoon. I had intended to take her to see a show but as business has gotten in the way, perhaps you would like to."

Sherlock scowled. He would not like, not at all.

"Actually I have a therapist's appointment and Sherlock said he would come too."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow; Sherlock fought the urge to do the same. John had no appointments and he certainly wouldn't have wanted Sherlock to go with him if he did. "Really? Whatever for?"

John crossed his arms and raised his chin, his eyes drifting to his fiancé for a brief moment. "For moral support not that it is any of your business."

Mycroft let out a puff of air, almost a snort and tilted his head. "Odd, this appointment isn't in my records..." He spoke almost as if to himself and he banged his umbrella one more time. "No matter, I am sure Mummy will be fine with Antheas company."

(Sherlock sniffed at the slightly softened tone his brother always used when talking about his assistant. It didn't suit his sibling.) He was still pondering why Mycroft had let John lie so blatantly to him like that...perhaps this was also part of the distraction plan? He was pulled away from his train of thought by the floor reverberating from Mycrofts exit and he looked to John. The doctor sighed and put his hands on his hips. "Right well, you'd better get dressed." Sherlock frowned for a fraction of a second before he caught up. Mycroft would be expecting them to leave for John's therapist.

It was still bitterly cold out and Sherlock pushed his hands further into his pockets as he waited outside the coffee shop for John. They had managed to lose the black saloon car and Becker had agreed to give them time, (Although only with the promise that they would be extremely careful not be killed and that John would update him every hour on the hour on their whereabouts.) time to talk about the Bossley situation, time to discuss Sherlocks 'mood'.

There was a quiet cough and John pressed a large tea into Sherlocks blue hands and they walked together, wandering aimlessly in silence. They walked a few blocks, Sherlock trying to think what to say. Did he tell John about his fears of his resemblance to Moriarty or did he keep it strictly to what they were going to do about Bossley? He didn't know, so instead he said nothing. "Right." John had stopped, throwing his empty cup into a nearby bin before putting his hands on his hips and lifting his chin. "Right." Sherlock kept silent. "Right." John appeared to be stuck in some sort of endless loop so Sherlock flicked his hair from his eyes and leant in closer to his fiancé.

"John, you still in there?"

The doctor almost smiled, it was there for a fraction of a second but the detective saw it and he felt a odd sort of triumph in his chest and took a sip of his almost cold tea to stifle the unexpected grin. "Right Tell me honestly how much of a threat right now is Bossley? What do you think his next move is?"

Sherlock thought about it. "Well if I was him I'd be running."

"Running from... _you_?"

"Don't be ridiculous. No, he is running from Moriarty. You saw how furious he was, how disgusted. Yes if I was Moriarty I would be hunting him down because he is ruining the plan. He is ruining the thrill of the chase, the game." John had his eyebrows raised, his lips pulled tightly together. He almost looked...jealous. Sherlock decided not to dwell on it. "So, if he is smart which he almost defiantly is, Bossley will be running for now."

"So we can consider ourselves safe?"

"Well, as safe as we ever get. Yes."

John actually smiled this time and slid his arm through Sherlocks arm before tugging him further down the street. "Good."

He listened to the soft ticking noise, it was beating in time to his heart and if Sherlock really concentrated he could slow his own heart beat and the clock would lose its place. "It is your time you are wasting here." Sherlock screwed up his face, it was almost like being back at school, back in the corner of some classroom with his head buried in his desk as he slept off a night of wandering the woods alone, looking for animals tracks and noting down the different plant species and their uses.

"I have absolutely no problem with that."

He could hear Barrows puff out a sigh through his hideous moustache. "You came to me for help and I can't help you if you won't co-operate. I thought you wanted to talk Sherlock."

There was a long pause almost as if he was expecting an answer. The detective sniffed and crossed his arms keeping his eyes closed. John was waiting outside in the car with Becker; they were probably going over Mummys napkin plans or something equally ludicrous. "I sense something has happened to make you withdraw like this." Witchcraft. Or had Mycroft been sending sneaky letters again.

"I am not withdrawn."

"Would you like to talk about what happened when Moriarty broke into your flat?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and flung his feet off the sofa, spiralling around to stare at his therapist. He knew it! "I knew it! My brother has been in contact hasn't he? Told you how I have been in one of my _moods_ again has he? Well, it was a dead loss for him, I am not talking about Moriarty or Moran or Bossley or _any_ of that."

Barrows said nothing he simply raised his palms at the detective, lowering his chin and looking down in a submissive motion. He seemed to think for a moment as though reconsidering his approach."You don't have to; I am here for you Sherlock. I am just a tool for you to use when things get a little bit too much, I am not here to force this on you."

Sherlock snorted. That was a lie, and the detective crossed his arms swiftly resuming his previous position. Since he and John had decided that Bossley was not an issue at the moment Sherlock had managed to force his fears and memories of Moriartys little visit out of his head but hearing his therapist spout the name with such concern brought it all back. He rubbed his thighs nervously but remained staring up at the ceiling. Barrows had helped before, somewhat...not that he would ever admit that in public but he would not be able to help here. Not with this. (He was deftly ignoring the real reason was that he didn't want to talk about the possibility that he **was** like Moriarty. After all he had never expressed many of the strange dark thoughts he had and this method seemed to be working for him thus far. )

He didn't know what to do, he could mention the moment that scared him so, the all too familiar dread of Bossley or even the oddness of Mycrofts concern in a family where emotion as not...favoured. He did none of these things.

"Come to my wedding."

Barrows eyebrows rose and he leant forwards in his seat with a tiny smile on his face, all but hidden by the vile moustache. "It is very flattering to be asked. Thank you, I would love to come." Sherlock just nodded and looked out of the window. "Do you want to talk about the wedding?" Sherlock didn't say anything; he just rubbed his thighs again and sniffed. "Is there something about it that is frightening you?" Sherlock licked his lips. Truth be told he was certain, absolutely certain, that something terrible would happen on that day be it Bossley, Moriarty or simply John leaving him standing at the altar. He paused for a moment before the words began to bubble in his throat and push against his tongue until they tumbled from his lips.

"I am not frightened. I just-"

Suddenly Sherlocks phone rang and he stopped mid sentence to tear it from his pocket. Saved by the bell. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock? Oh dear, there are two strange men here at the front door and they asked me about you. Mycroft did tell me not to let anybody in but I can't just_ leave_ them out there in this weather!"

Sherlock sighed she sounded concerned, motherly. "Mrs Hudson calm down, tell me what they look like."

He could hear her dithering over the phone and then the click of the door as she pulled it open a little to peer out at the men for a long moment before the door closed again. "One of them is very tall with dark hair and the other is short with blonde hair."

Sherlock frowned. They did not sound familiar. "Ask them what they want."

He could hear her polite twittering for only a moment before a deeper gruffer voice interjected and another unfamiliar voice filtered through his mobile. "Is this Sherlock Holmes?"

"Who wants to know?"

"My name is commander Alex Waverley. I am here with my partner attempting to track down a serial murderer and I have been informed that if I want to find someone in London you're the man I need to talk to."

Sherlock grinned. "Please pass the phone back to Mrs. Hudson." He waited a few seconds as the phone was passed back. "Mrs Hudson please let the men in. Also, put the kettle on, we will be home sooner than anticipated."

John and Becker had shared a look when Sherlock had burst out of his therapist's office, striding past them without a word. They talked over him as he slumped in the back of the cab, staring out at the dull grey sky and the people outside battling against the harsh winds that swirled through the city streets with enough force to turn any umbrella inside out. Finally, a case to take his mind back to his work. _Thank god_. A serial murderer? **Fantastic. **As they pulled up at the flat Becker jumped out first holding the door open for John as the doctor clamoured out leaving his fiancé sat alone in the back of the cab. Sherlock hadn't moved, he was stuck staring down the road at the entrance to Baker street tube station. He could have sworn for just a mere moment he had seen a well turned heel and a wicked grin before he had glanced away. Well he wasn't looking away now, no he was staring and staring just daring for even a passing resemblance to the face he saw so often in his dreams to pass his view.

But he didn't and the minutes dragged on and on and on until John's concerned face was peering in at him and he vaguely heard his name being called. Everything snapped back into focus and the detective slipped out quickly, not looking John in the face as he brushed past him and jogged up the stairs. He managed to keep his face blank and breezed into the flat storing that odd moment away in the back of his mind as he hung his scarf and coat up, giving himself a moment to breathe before he turned and focussed on the two strangers in his home.

The taller one got to his feet leaving his much shorter partner sitting on the sofa and stuck out his hand as if to prompt Sherlock to shake. He did reluctantly and swept across the room to sit in his chair. He decided that the taller one was Alex, he was after all clearly former military with his stern haircut and stiff posture, and his voice had been tinged slightly with an accent Sherlock couldn't quite place over the phone. He suspected it was somewhere other than Britain's temperate climate as the man had a tan and was wearing a t-shirt a jumper a jacket and a coat as well as a pair of dark jeans and large heavy tan coloured boots and so obviously wasn't used to the weather. His partner remained seated but was clearly much _much_ shorter than Alex with a long face, scruffy five o'clock shadow and dyed blonde hair that swept back over his head in a slick wave; he grinned shyly at Sherlock and twitched his lips in greeting. (Obviously the least serious of the pair.) He was wearing a much more sensible jumper rolled up to his elbows with a tie poking up at his collar and sensible black shoes. He probably originated from somewhere colder than his partner.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock lifted his chin in recognition as John and Becker caught up, bursting into the room and blinking at their guests. John spoke first. "Uh, I'll just put the kettle on." Becker just made a hand signal indicating he was going back downstairs to make a call. The kitchen doors slid open as John reached them, revealing a very high spirited Mrs. Hudson carrying an almost comically large tea tray heavy laden with an enormous black teapot and a plate piled high with biscuits. Straight away the shorter man got to his feet and helped her place the burden on the table, snaffling a handful of custard creams on his way back to the sofa.

Mrs Hudson fussed around pouring tea and handing out mugs apologising for her apparently limited selection of biscuits. It allowed Sherlock to observe the men and the manila folder that lay on the table. He picked it up and flicked through the notes inside, sniffing at the man's rap sheet and the grainy CCTV shot of his face. He had peculiar features, a long pointed nose and protruding teeth. He looked like a rat. She bent down next to the detective, glancing the partners way as they argued over the biscuits and then back to Sherlock. "I do wish you would bring such handsome young men home more often." She grinned and winked at the detective and for once Sherlock felt compelled to put up a front and quietly whispered back to her.

"I will try my best."

She chuckled softly tilting her head and looked if only for moment like she wanted to say something else, concern shimmering in her eyes, before turning away and hurriedly trotting out of the room with a blush and a smile at the Americans.

"I wish we had one of those." Alex gestured with his cup at Mrs. Hudson's retreating back, "Back home we have to get our own coffee."

"Ha! You mean_ I_ have to get our coffee. You know, he hasn't once bought me a drink in the morning. Not once, and we've been partners for over a year."

"Oh come on babe, you know that getting the coffee is your job."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as the men proceeded to have an extended argument whilst John perched on the arm of the detectives chair and took the tea from his hands where it had been threatening to tip over, spilling scalding tea onto his lap. He handed the file over and listened to the doctors humming and haaing as he looked over the details before dropping the file onto the coffee table. It silenced the men and Sherlock placed his fingers in a pyramid looking over at them as the shorter one spoke. He had an interesting sort of swagger, crossing his arms and tilting his head back. Sherlock surmised that this was a habit that had developed to deal with the man's short stature.

"So, do you think you can help us?"

John answered for him. "Absolutely."

Sherlock had left the two American detectives back at the flat in the care of Mrs. Hudson whilst he and John went to consult the homeless network, this time meeting a refugee named Henry in alleyway. John had stood at the entrance casually chatting to a couple of war vets while they smoked and drank weak tea from thin polystyrene cups, huddled together against the cold. The detective had been on his way back to the doctor when Henry spoke up.

"I'd be careful if I were you." He stopped and spun on his heel. "Ghosts can kill you know."

He walked back towards the man, a huddled figured wrapped in tartan blankets and beaten 80's trainers. "Ghosts?"

"There is a lot to be seen when you look closely Sherlock. The walls see things, not just what you want them to see. They see everything. But that doesn't mean they tell you. The walls talk to each others, to the gutters and the benches and they are all talking about you Sherlock."

The detective frowned; Henry had a habit of confusing himself and other homeless people with being actual living conduits of the city. He decided to run with it. "So, what are the walls saying?"

"That you can't run from ghosts. They always find you."

"Do you know where I can find the ghosts?"

"They always find you, they find you. Sherlock, the walls know that the ghosts will find you. Find you." He began rocking slightly on his filthy heels and Sherlock dropped another £20 at his feet before joining his fiancé at the alleyway entrance.

John acknowledged his presence with a raised eyebrow. "That took a while." Sherlock didn't say anything, he just walked onwards. The doctor froze behind for a second before jogging to catch up and sliding his arm through Sherlocks elbow. They walked in silence for a moment not that the detective noticed, he was too focussed on what Henry had said. He knew that choosing to ignore Bossley was only going to work for a short while, that it would probably be something that came back to bite him on the arse (A phrase John used a lot. It sounded better coming out of the doctors' mouth.) and that Moriarty was still out there, not even starting on the image that was burned to his mind of the monster and the man and that tender moment and what it could all mean. He grumbled under his breath and could almost feel the concern washing off of John and his furrowed brow and the wrinkles around his eyes and it was all becoming too much and he felt that urge deep in his gut to find the nearest dealer and just lose himself but John was there pulling on his arm and grounding him again and so he looked to the doctor and John continued to frown and John John John.

There was a moment where he didn't know what to do but thankfully the doctor pulled him down into a soft kiss and Sherlock used the sensation to force himself to focus, sliding his ice cold fingers up into Johns sleeve to feel the soft hair on his arms, the other hand slipping under the edge of the doctors sweater rubbing over his soft cotton t-shirt and for once he let his eyes close and just lost himself in the warmth and comfort. It was brief, no more than ten seconds but it was enough to dull the drag in his stomach and to clear his head a little bit and when John tried a hesitant smile he managed to return the gesture by turning the corners of his mouth up a little and narrowing his eyes and John rested his head on Sherlock shoulder for a moment before coughing deep in his throat, flushing a interesting cherry red colour and tugging Sherlock back into walking, his eyes darting around the few people also out in the drab weather.

They walked back to the flat, normally they would have called a cab but John didn't stop walking and didn't even look up to suggest they get one. The detective had a sneaking suspicion that this was some sort of coping technique as John was staring dead ahead and moving at a constant speed. Most people sped up or slowed down if only by a little while they walked as they noticed things that took their interest and sped up to see them or things that embarrassed or frightened them and slowed down as if to avoid the situation but John was moving at a steady pace and Sherlock decided he was probably reciting a march in his head. (Sherlock had found John repeatedly climbing the stairs in the middle of the night a few weeks after they met, muttering a chant under his breath and staring into the far distance. John had told him it helped to calm him down after a nightmare.) This also meant that John was worried too. The detective looked away from his fiancés face and sniffed, trying and failing to ignore the sadness that only added to the panic in his chest.

When they arrived back at the flat they unlocked the door to find that Becker was not in his chair by the door although a empty mug of tea and half of what must have been a heart attack inducing pile of biscuits remained on the side table. John's eyebrow twitched and he tensed. If Becker wasn't at his post and hadn't called them to tell them why then it was because of two reasons. He was busy upstairs in the flat or...or he was unable to contact them. John took his arm from Sherlock and twitched to his side sliding his gun from the holster Becker had given him. (Since Bossley's return John had decided to wear his gun with him everywhere. It was one of the safety measures Becker insisted upon.)

He signalled to Sherlock to be quiet and crouched slightly, his shoulders tense as he crept slowly up the flat stairs. Sherlock stayed in the hallway for a moment, listening to his own heartbeat thundering in his chest before following, his footsteps effortlessly light and silent. When they rounded the corners John paused and walked even slower peering over the edge, Sherlock could see him baring his teeth and yet the pulse in the doctor's neck was steady. He was not afraid. Sherlock cursed inwardly, if John could be brave then why was Sherlock so frightened ? Why was _his _stomach churning? Why did _his _knees turn to jelly? He was furious with himself and with the world and not for the first time he felt a pang of loss for his life before John, before he was '**human**'. The door to the flat was closed and he jogged quickly up the stairs leaning at one side of the doorframe with his hand on the handle. Sherlock ran up and leant on the other side as John pointed his gun at the door. There were sounds of scuffle inside, a muffled shout and a loud thump and John didn't hesitate, eyes flickering to Sherlock for a mere second before he threw the door open, flying in with his gun pointed down at Becker on the floor underneath his attacker.


	16. Chapter 15b

**A/N: Jesus, I'm so sorry these are taking so long. I might have to split this final chapter up into several parts. Otherwise it would just be waay too long. Thank you for sticking with it!**

Everybody froze and Sherlock peered around the door, his body relaxing almost instantly as he spotted Becker crouched over Alex, with the taller mans arm twisted behind his back. They were both grinning. Both of their weapons were on the desk and both weren't wearing shoes. They were both panting too.

Sherlock almost slapped a hand to his face (Another habit of Johns, especially around Sherlock.) clearly nobody was in danger here. He turned to John and pressed on his arm and the doctor lowered his weapon.

"Is that a browning?" Alex effortlessly threw Beckers hold off and got to his feet.

John raised his eyebrows. "Uh...yes. Yes it is." Suddenly Alex, Becker and John were grouped around the desk comparing their guns and joking and laughing and Sherlock glared at the back of his fiancés head. He seemed so relaxed, so at ease and when he clapped a hand to Beckers shoulder Sherlock all but growled, throwing himself onto his sofa with a soft thump. He lay there breathing against the cold fabric for almost five minutes as his heart rate went back to normal before he heard the kitchen doors slid open and a fourth voice sounded.

"Hey, what's going on?"

Alex spoke next, his voice full of excitement. "Scott! Come here, I want you to hold these weapons."

"I hope to god that's not a euphemism."

Sherlock growled. He was left out again. Suddenly he just wanted everyone out of the flat, right _now_. "Hey what's wrong with him?" Becker was speaking in a hushed tone but Sherlock still heard him. He clenched his fists against his thighs.

"It's...it's nothing." John was probably making faces at Becker, trying to keep some semblance of professionalism in front of the Americans whilst still letting the commander know that it was just Sherlock being Sherlock or something. He growled again and almost rolled over to voice his disapproval but the move was aborted when his phone began to ring in his pocket.

He ignored it.

Johns phone started ringing instantly afterwards and then Beckers joined in the chorus. Becker answered. "Commander Becker." There was a pause and Sherlock could feel eyes on his back. "Yes sir." Another long pause. "Yes sir." He hung up and Sherlock knew that it had been Mycroft on the phone. "I'm sorry guys but can I offer you a lift back to your hotel?" There was pause and Sherlock felt John slide onto the sofa at his feet, his weight pressing against the back of his knees, warmth slowly seeping through.

"Oh... Yeah sure. We are staying at the Americana? You can contact us about the case at uh...this number." There were the scratchy sounds of Becker writing the number down and then he addressed the detective and the doctor.

"Don't go anywhere."

Sherlock could feel John nodding and licked his lips, waiting for the men to collect their guns and put their shoes on it was all taking too long and he was glad for John's presence because it meant he couldn't just flip over and start shouting so instead he focussed on his own pale reflection in the shiny fabric. Finally, _finally_, the echoes of scraping of boots and the soft goodbyes were all that were left of the other men and for a long time John and Sherlock just sat in silence.

His clothes were beginning to smell, now he had nothing else to focus on he could almost taste the sweat and rain in his clothes and he screwed up his nose. John sighed and got up and Sherlock rolled onto his back glaring up at the ceiling as he forced himself to stop paying attention to his own smell and instead pay attention to the doctor who was tidying up, moving the massive tea tray to the kitchen sighing and muttering under his breath. Sherlock stayed exactly where he was.

He tried occupying his mind with his new case but it was a pitiful effort. After all simply finding someone, especially a criminal as uncouth and downright stupid as this was child's play. And yet... he couldn't bring himself to put much thought into it, he couldn't bring himself to feel excited about this case. He scowled and rolled over again so he was fully facing the flat, watching Johns hips sway slightly side to side as he wiped the kitchen units and put away pots.

John seemed to be trying so very hard to appear unaffected by the recent events.

Sherlocks eyes drifted to the chair that Moran had been tied to. Was it possible that John really wasn't as worried as Sherlock was? He thought about it for a moment, John still didn't know about the Moriarty moment or about Sherlock seeing (What maybe, possibly, _could-have-been_) Bossley or the panic that had developed in his chest and settled to a feeling of unease and anger. For all John knew they had a new case, Bossley was gone for the time being, they had both survived Moriartys visit fully intact and Sherlock was simply in one of his 'moods' and so things were looking up. It was safe to assume John was not as angry or unsure as the detective.

**The bastard**.

It was supposed to be Sherlocks job to feel better about things, John was the one who was supposed to worry, John was the one who was supposed to think about things like this. At once he hated the doctor and shot him a furious look as he returned to the room, receiving a confused glance and almost disappointed sigh in return.

"Becker will be back soon."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"That was Mycroft on the phone wasn't it?"

Again, nothing.

"Dammit Sherlock, please just tell me what is wrong. It's just I'd rather not spend the next few hours of my life having to deal with you shooting me death glares whilst being grilled by your brother. We are supposed to be a team now."

Sherlock looked away from him. How did he even begin to explain? Johns sighed again and walked up to him, crouching on his heels so his face was almost level with Sherlock, eyes searching his face.

"Sherlock."

He looked. "I think I need to see Barrows."

Johns eyebrows rose a fraction but other than that he hid his surprise well instead replacing it with a encouraging smile. "I will make you an appointment asap."

Sherlock nodded and John sighed reaching out to run his fingers through Sherlocks hair, he screwed up his nose and tilted his head at the detective. "You need a shower. Go."

Sherlock didn't move and John tugged lightly on his hair, smiling softly. "Sherlock go for a shower."

The detective frowned and reached up grabbing the back of Johns head as leverage as he pressed an angry kiss to his lover's lips. John didn't push him back and when Sherlock pulled away he simply raised an eyebrow, got to his feet and pointed out of the door. He didn't want to move. Hopefully that had been distracting enough.

"Now."

Oh it was the voice again. Sherlock got up.

By the time he got back downstairs Mycroft was already there. He was lounging on the sofa sipping from the edge of a mug as though he was being forced to take poison. Ah yes, Mycroft would probably never get used to Johns tea. Sherlock smirked but quickly wiped the expression off his face as he swept into the room, grabbing John's laptop from the desk and flopping into his chair. He made a point of appearing not to even notice his brother's presence and didn't react when he heard John's irritated sigh. He replied to a few of the mountain of emails in his inbox, making sure to keep his eyes focussed on the screen as he listened to John and Mycroft talking.

"So I hear you have a new case?"

"Yes we do. A missing person."

"_Missing person_?"

John was obviously trying to play it off as less...dangerous than it was. Sherlock began pounding the laptop keys a bit harder than he needed too, why was it that everyone around him felt the need to downplay the danger that was his life. It wasn't going to change things and he didn't want anything to change. Mycroft looked over and narrowed his eyes but Sherlock simply feigned ignorance of this pointed move.

His brother sniffed and took another loud sip of tea. "I was also wondering if you had decided on a date?"

John frowned and moved from the kitchen doorway to sit in his chair. Sherlock instantly stretched his legs out from where his feet had been tucked underneath himself to rest on either side of the doctors legs, pressing back on the edges of John's chair. The doctor adjusted his position to make both of them more comfortable without looking up from his drink.

"No, not yet."

He looked up and Sherlock let his eyes flicker up over the edge of the screen to look at his fiancé for a moment. John looked almost sad. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and the doctor tilted his head a little to the left. The detective didn't understand what that expression meant. He looked back down to the screen and began typing again, keeping his eyes on the words but entirely absorbed on what that look could mean.

Perhaps John wasn't sure about setting a date? Did he not want this anymore?

Sherlock looked up again and John had started talking but Sherlock was too busy trying to decipher his micro-expressions that he couldn't hear the words. John placed his mug down on the side table and instead of using his free hand to gesture as he spoke (As he so often did.) he let it drop to Sherlocks ankle, resting on top at first before slowly letting his finger stretch up under the bottom cuff to fiddle with the string that had unwoven from Sherlocks sock.

The detective almost smiled, it was such a simple thing and yet the churning in his stomach seemed to melt into a warm sensation that tugged at the corners of his lips and made him miss a beat in his typing.

"What about Fulbright?"

Mycroft had been mid sentence when the detective interrupted. He shut his mouth at once at his brother's vocalisation.

"What? What's Fulbright?" Johns hand tensed on Sherlocks ankle and the detective let the laptop screen fall shut with a snap. He smiled at John and the doctor smiled back although there was a hint of unease in his eyes. Mycroft smacked his lips and Sherlock looked to him crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

"Sherlock, you cannot-"

"Why not?"

Mycrofts eyes narrowed a little but he carried on talking. "Mummy would never allow it."

"I don't care what mummy would or would not allow. It is _my_ wedding; I should be allowed to have it whenever _I_ want."

John's mouth was hanging open and he shook his fiancés ankle to get his attention. "Uh still not understanding here?"

It was Mycroft who answered him. "Fulbright Holmes was Mummy's mother's father and on the anniversary of his death the family sits down to a meal to discuss how well everyone is doing. It is a tradition-"

Sherlock interrupted his brother again. "You mean_ failures_."

"Oh come now Sherlock are you still bitter about that? Is this the reason you are always so conveniently tied up elsewhere every year?"

John was rubbing circles over Sherlocks ankle in a very distracting manner. He twitched internally at the mention of that dinner, despite his usual unaffected manner he was still a proud man and the events of his last Fulbright dinner still stung deep in his chest.

"Sherlock, a word..."

John was suddenly up on his feet and a little pink in the cheeks and when Sherlock didn't get up the doctor reached out and tugged on the fabric of his shirt. He then turned and stamped out to the stairs leaving Sherlock alone with his brother. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and waved a hand in a sweeping motion as if granting Sherlock permission to follow. The detective scowled at his brothers' smirk but followed his fiancé none the less.

John looked tired, his hair was rumpled and when Sherlock shut the door to the flat behind him the doctor dropped a hand from where it had been rubbing his temple to his waist. Sherlock waited.

"What the hell is wrong with you!" Sherlock raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to comment but the doctor slapped a hand over his mouth shaking his head. "Don't answer that. Jesus this is our engagement all over again."

Sherlock thought back to his 'asking' John to marry him. He didn't understand what John meant, this was completely different.

"_You_ don't get to decide what day we get married. _We_ get to decide, together, as a partnership. That is the whole point Sherlock, it's not your day it's _our_ day, _our _wedding and I think_ I _should have some say in when it happens."

He paused for second and removed his hand but again when Sherlock went to comment the doctor raised a hand to stop him.

"Not to mention that we aren't exactly in the perfect position get married right now. We still have a homicidal maniac chasing us, you are still having those nightmares and we are both still recovering from Moriartys little visit. The day is supposed to be one of the best of my life and I don't want it to be spent looking over my shoulder, which I guess with you...I always will be..."

John huffed out a tense breath and flung his hands out. He seemed to stare into the distance as though deep in thought for a couple of seconds before he looked up to see Sherlock staring at him.

Oh, _oh_ so John **was** having second thoughts.

Something painful and prickly had developed in Sherlocks throat and every time he swallowed it just drove it deeper and deeper into his chest. He felt hopeless and was struck by the image of Moran, needling in his chair searching for Moriartys comfort. He imagined that this was probably what it felt to be that helpless and he just stood there, blinking and trying not to show how disappointed he felt.

Johns face suddenly came back into focus and Sherlock searched it desperately looking for some indication of what he was supposed to do next. John looked confused. "Sherlock? Hey, what's wrong? You're not going to pass out are you?"

The doctor reached out to touch his arm but the detective flinched away. Johns eyes widened and he reached out again this time grabbing his fiancés arm and holding firm, tugging Sherlock closer to him his other hand coming up to cup Sherlocks cheek.

"Hey hey, what's going on? What's the matter?"

Sherlock couldn't look him in the eye so he stared at the concerned little downturn of his fiancés mouth. It was probably best to make this easier for John. He tried to keep his voice low, reasonable. "I am sure Mycroft will allow me to use his London house for a short while. Moving my things out will take a bit longer of course but-"

"Woah woah woah, what are you talking about?"

"You don't want to marry me."

"What? No, Sherlock, I'm pretty sure I do."

"You just said it, you don't want to get married whilst looking over your shoulder and if you stay with that is all you are ever going to do."

Johns eyes widened and he pulled at Sherlocks shirt, trying to get the detective to make eye contact. When they finally did he was attempting a cold indifferent gaze, but he wasn't sure if it came out that way.

"Sherlock listen to me, what I want...**all** I want is to marry you. It's all I've wanted since I met you."

Sherlock couldn't stop the doubt from making his eyelashes flutter or his eyebrows twitch and John grabbed his neck stroking a thumb over his cheek. "I mean it. I love you."

"I love you too." His voice was a mumble but it still managed to make John smile and he smiled too as the doctor pulled him into a tight hug. John's arms were tight around his shoulders and Sherlock let his own hand slip down to hold the shorter mans waist. He could feel John's heartbeat through his shirt and when John took a deep breath Sherlock pulled him in tighter to accommodate. The doctor's breath ghosted over Sherlock bare neck and he shivered burying his face in the warmth and strength of John's shoulders.

When he pulled back John was looking thoughtful.

"When exactly is Fulbright's day?"

"August 10th."

John breathed out of his nose and his hand stroked Sherlocks lower back where his arms were still wrapped around his lover. "I tell you what. We can set that as a very _very _tentative date and see how things go." Sherlock was smiling properly now because despite his fears over Moriarty and the Bossley problem and his nightmares John **did** want to marry him. "Agreed?"

The doctor was smiling back up at him, wide and soft and Sherlock finally knew just what to do.

"Agreed."

John nodded and pecked him once again on the lips before walking around him and back into the living room. Mycroft was texting when they entered and waited for his brother to sit back down before he slid the phone into his breast pocket and spoke again. "Enquiring about setting the date was not the only reason I came here. Sherlock, as you know Mummy is in London and she wished for me to pass along a message..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, Mycroft was looking at him with the same steady gaze he always used when he was about to tell his younger brother something that he knew would upset him. He narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin.

"Mummy would like to meet Mr. and Mrs. Watson. She has suggested her standing dinner at Giordi's next Thursday as a possible timing." There was beat of silence before everyone started talking at once.

"This is very important to her and-"

"That is not going to hap-"

"You're springing this on us **now**?"

John's voice was the loudest and both Sherlock and Mycroft looked to him. The doctor had two high spots of pink on his cheeks and his hands were clenched at his sides. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths before crossing his arms and staring Mycroft down.

"What **is** it with you people! You seem to think you can just go around telling everyone what to do and they have to do it. You are not in charge of everything!" John was already yelling and flailing his arms around as his voice got louder and louder until he was interrupted by Sherlocks phone going off on the coffee table. Sherlock picked it up whilst hiding the smirk he had gotten seeing Mycrofts poorly hidden shock at being shouted at like that.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock? There's been a murder, I need you."

Sherlocks smirk grew even larger and he relaxed his shoulder turning to make a face at John. Yes, Lestrade needed him, because he was out of his depth. (Not to mention of course that this got him out of having to argue with Mycroft over the dinner plans.)The doctor raised his eyebrows and the anger seemed to melt off of his face turning to confusion as Sherlock grinned wickedly back at him.

"A murder?" Sherlock let his voice drop to a low murmur and heard Lestrade sigh, frustrated, on the other end of the phone.

John closed his eyes and nodded to indicate he understood who was on the phone and what they wanted. Sherlocks grin grew a little bit larger.

"Yeah, I'm at the morgue I need you to-" The sound of doors slamming open in the background and then two familiar voices. Sherlock sniffed, these Americans were quick on the draw. He waited patiently for almost a minute as the muffled voices on the other end argued, strained politeness still managing to filter through. Finally he got bored of waiting and prompted the DI.

"Lestrade?"

"Oh yeah, sorry two detectives just came in and started trying to muscle me out of my own case-". He sounded angry and Sherlock could here Alex pipe up in the background that it was _his_ case. He almost laughed.

"Tell the detectives that you are working with me on this. I am sure they will be happy to help you then."

"_What_? Are you kidding me?"

"Tell them Sherlock Holmes sent you." He dialled up the insistence in his voice until he was basically ordering the DI to do as he said. (A warm smug feeling was developing in his chest and the urge to play up to it was strong.)

Lestrade scoffed and Sherlock waited as he reluctantly repeated what the detective had told him. There was a long silence and then Lestrade spoke again. "Okay. What is going on?"

"We will be there in ten minutes." He hung up and slid the phone into his pocket.

"Not _we_ Sherlock."

Oh, right. His heart sank at the idea of John not being there to admire him. "You're not coming?"

John licked his lips; he looked genuinely apologetic so the detective decided to make no further argument about it. (After all he was supposed to be working on **not** telling John what to do.)

"No."

Sherlock frowned and this time Mycrofts phone beeped and as he slipped it from his pocket to read the message Sherlock turned fully to look at his fiancé. "Where _are_ you going?"

John sighed, and scrubbed at his hair with one hand, screwing his face up. "I think I will go to Harrys for a while..."

"Harrys?"

"Yeah, you remember? My sister?"

"I remember who she is John. I just don't understand why you would want to visit family voluntarily."

John actually laughed and Sherlock let a small smile twitch at his lips as Mycroft gave him a withering glare before addressing John directly. "Please inform me if your parents will be able to attend the dinner John. As I said before, it is very important to Mummy that she meets them."

John crossed his arms and nodded. "They won't want to come."

"Well regardless, just let me know."

The doctor nodded again and Mycroft swept around him and down the stairs, leaving the two men alone. Sherlock walked over to the table and grabbed his coat, slipping it on and fiddling with his cuffs. John walked up behind him and tugged on the sleeves, putting everything right with one simple gesture. Sherlock smiled and John patted him on the arm, squeezing his wrist for a second before letting go. "Don't do anything stupid whilst I'm gone."

"Honestly John, I managed to live perfectly fine on my own before you came along."

"_Seriously_? If by perfectly fine you mean becoming malnourished and not sleeping for days. Or showering for that matter."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissing his fiancés argument. "Don't wait up."

When he arrived outside Bart's he was greeted by Becker on the pavement, waving his arms enthusiastically and grinning.

"Commander."

"Sherlock."

He gestured for Becker to lead and they walked together in silence to the mortuary. Molly was talking very quickly and gesturing a lot. Alex and Scott were listening intently and barely acknowledged the detectives arrival. Lestrade however raised a hand and jogged the short distance over to him, bobbing his head in the direction of the Americans, his voice barely over a whisper. "So, clients of yours?"

"Yes actually. They are here looking for a fugitive who it appears has been keeping reasonably busy."

Lestrade slapped a hand to his face, the other clenching at his hip. His tone was less light now and much _much_ more long suffering. "You didn't think to maybe pick up the phone, call me? I mean no of _course _not it's only a psychopathic murderer, why should I call the police!"

Sherlock just smirked and reached around the DI to grab some gloves from the box, he snapped the latex on and made his way over to the body. She was female, mid twenties and with dyed blonde hair and very pale blue eyes. She had bruising on her lip and a dark red almost purple coloured smudge going up towards her left ear. Clearly she had been hit very hard in the face. He carefully documented her injuries, lifting her hands to see she had no defensive wounds. The punch must have knocked her out. He moved around to her feet and the slight swelling there. He gently pulled her ankle and peered under at the back of her calf. Yes, there it was. The brand. The murderer's signature.

He took one last cursory glance and stood up fully, snapping the gloves off as he spun around finding himself almost chest to chest with Molly. "Well?"

She blinked at him, almost frightened. He had to improvise since he didn't have John to confirm his cause of death. Unfortunately their position seemed to be having a disastrous effect on the woman. "S-She uh-"

"Molly." Sherlock lowered his voice a little and titled his head and she blinked furiously smiling at the slightly pleading tone he used. "Thoughts?"

Surprisingly it worked and she lifted her chin, striding away from the detective and to the body with a small smirk. "We-well I can't be sure but...I think this was a surprise attack, he punched her in the jaw knocking her out making it easier to transport her to the hotel room where he raped, beat, branded and then suffocated her."

"With?"

"With some sort of red silk fabric judging from the fibres collected from her throat."

Sherlock smiled and nodded at her and Molly grinned too, pulling at her hair. "I need you to take a closer look at those fibres and I need to see the hotel room."

Lestrade sniffed and put both hands on his hips. "I will take you."

"What car are you driving?"

The DI's shoulders sank and he looked down. "A cruiser."

"Right well, then Becker and I will take a cab. I am sure my clients would be most grateful if you offered them a lift. All right? _Excellent_." He smiled at the Americans and swept from the room, waiting for Commander Becker to catch up to him outside. He hailed a cab and as it pulled up Becker took charge.

Sherlock slipped into the backseat and froze. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and he automatically looked to the nearest CCTV camera, high on a ledge across the road. It was pointing away. He frowned, perhaps it was nothing.

In the car on the way to the crime scene Sherlock flipped through the messages on his phone ignoring the irritating sense in the back of his mind that something was definitely wrong. He sat up a little more in his seat and as they pulled up to the light he glared out of the window as though he would suddenly spot someone watching him.

Becker was chatting away into his phone and when he snapped it closed he looked across to the detective, staring at him as though deep in thought. Sherlock carried on searching the faces of the people in the cars around them, trying in vain to ignore the commander eyes boring into the back of his head. Finally, he snapped. "_What_?"

Becker sniffed and squinted at him. "Are you okay?"

"What? Yes, of course I am, why?"

"Well, it's just...you keep jumping at loud noises, putting yourself in corners...you know... "

"What? No I don't."

"Yes you do, you've been doing it for days. I am just saying, as a friend, that maybe you are more affected by what happened at the flat than you thought? I mean I see it all the time in my men, they think they are fine and then one day...one day they-"

"I do not have PTSD Commander. I am fine."

He wasn't fine, had he really been doing those things? Was that why John had seemed so unsure with him? Why Mycroft had come to see him personally instead of calling? Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the back of the cabbies head. How bad has his psyche gotten that he hadn't even noticed himself doing these things and yet the commander had.

He jumped when Beckers hand patted him gently on the arm and ignored the concerned glance this earned him, wrenching his door open to leap out before he had to endure it any longer. He made his way into the hotel (Four stars, rather more upmarket than expected. Therefore he probably used the room here for a while before bringing his victim here. Why spend so much only to use it to dump a body.) heading straight for the stairs, Beckers heavy footsteps fading away as he sprinted up to the third floor. Police were swarming the hallway and Sherlock made a point of ignoring them all, sweeping down and turning into the room.

He was stopped by a strong arm and Sally Donovan's furious face. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To my crime scene."

"_Your_ crime scene? Don't make me laugh...unless...you _don't_-" Suddenly her smirk dropped and her eyes grew wide and she stared up at him.

How ridiculous. "Honestly Sally, I would've expected you to give me more credit than that. Turning up to the site of my own murder?_ Really_? No, my latest clients have been tracking the killer for a while and I am now officially on the case. So if you don't mind..."

She didn't move. Rolling her eyes with a slight blush on her cheeks the detective pointed at him, moving her other hand up to point rudely in his face. "You are not going in! You could be lying!"

He was already tired of this conversation and decided to antagonise her a little more. "About what? That I'm on the case or that I _didn't_ murder this woman." He made sure to let his voice drop and octave, eyes boring steadily into Donavan's eyes and again she went pale. Sherlock almost laughed at how easy to scare she was but then Becker turned up with Lestrade and the two American detectives in tow, breaking the tension he had crafted.

"Sally! Let him in for god's sake." Ah, the eternal fathering tone Lestrade used was usually very effective except Sally didn't move. She glanced quickly away from Sherlocks gaze to Lestrades slightly angry expression and back.

She removed her arm.

He grinned and danced around her and into the room immediately gravitating to the unmade bed and ignoring the crime scene team who stared at him as he threw himself around to the window. He looked out to see the park across the road and sniffed, exactly as he expected. Then back to the bed, he could see where the body had lain and the plain white sheets were crumpled and bunched up from the struggle. Sherlock frowned and dropped down to look under the bed, flying around the room opening closets and tearing open the shower curtain and yet he didn't find it.

"Is this exactly as you found it? The room hadn't been cleaned?"

Lestrade piped up. "No, there was a do not disturb sign left on the door."

"Then how was the body discovered?"

"An anonymous tip from the payphone outside."

Sherlock flipped his phone out and ignored Lestrade as he discussed theories with Alex and Scott. The phone rang twice before it was picked up. "How may I help you?" It was Mycrofts assistant. She was probably already aware of who was calling. "I need to see some CCTV footage."

"Of course. A car will be sent to your location, how many passengers are you expecting?"

Sherlock frowned and glanced around the various men. Well it would make it easier to have them all there. "Five." He hung up and licked his lips, knowing he would have everyone's full attention. They all shut up. He smirked. "We need to see the CCTV for that payphone."

Lestrade put a hand to his face. "I know that, I already put in a request for the relevant tapes. But it could ta-"

Sherlock just walked out followed very closely by Becker and the other detectives. Surely Lestrade should have known by now that Sherlock never _requested_ anything. In the short trip outside Sherlock thought about that red silk fibre and the distinct lack of anything red or silk in the hotel room. Obviously the killer had brought it with him and yet...why not leave it afterwards; it had served its purpose. Perhaps he used the same piece of cloth in every murder. Clearly the red silk and the hotel room were just as much his signature as the branding.

"What's going on here?" Scott spoke up hands on hips. He sounded furious and Sherlock turned to him with a raised eyebrow.

"We are going to look at the CCTV footage."

Scott frowned and started to speak again but Sherlock wasn't listening because over the short mans shoulder he could see a familiar face and he walked forwards, pushing past his companions to follow that familiar face into the alley nearby.

"This is all I got." The man handed him a grimy piece of paper, folded into a square and Sherlock smiled and slipped a twenty from his pocket into the man's palm. Whatever the network could give him would be bound to help after all.

"Thank you."

The man's raised his eyebrows and shuffled away, glancing over his shoulder as Sherlock stared after him. He unfolded the paper on his way back to the group, finding Alex holding back his partner and Lestrade trying to explain that they needed to get used to Sherlock just walking off whenever he felt like it. It was just something he did.

A car pulled up not three minutes later and Sherlock smirked, hopping down into the road to open the door for his companions. They all climbed in and he sniffed glancing around as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. And yet...no. There was nothing. Even his keen eyes couldn't find the source of his unease and so he forced it out of his mind, throwing himself into the back of the car and almost onto Lestrade's lap in his haste to forget the niggling fear in his mind. "Ah! Watch it Sherlock!"

He didn't apologise. John had told him numerous times that he barely weighed anything so he couldn't have possibly hurt Lestrade as much as the DI was making out. The ride over to Mycroft's offices was tense. Tense enough that even Sherlock could pick up on it. He kept his eyes on his phone screen, texting John with updates about the case. More to amuse himself than anything else. He was still however watching the two American detective's body language carefully. It appeared as if Scott had not been as soothed by Lestrade as one would hope and Alex was sending obvious cues that his partner should calm down. Clearly one half of the pair was a bigger fan of his than the other.

"If you don't mind me asking, where **did** you hear about me?"

He didn't look up from the screen and his made sure to lace his voice with an equal amount of distrust and self confidence. It was Alex who answered him, his voice carefully calm, it betrayed his obvious enthusiasm. "Another member of my team reads your blog; she was the one who told me that she knew someone in England who might be able to help us."

"So you read it then?"

"Read What?"

"My blog." He looked up, fixing the man with a hard stare.

"Yes, I did."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and let a small smirk filter onto his face. He was thinking about Mrs. Hudson and that maybe she was right, maybe this man was handsome. This was a trait that could be useful as a distraction when it came to tracking the murderer down. But to use the detective he would have to make him warm up to Sherlock first. "What did you think?" He made sure to use the deep voice he used when he was being especially nice to Molly.

Alex grinned. "It was fascinating. I really-"

"Oh god, enough about that damn blog! His head is big enough already."

Sherlock glared at the DI. "I see you still haven't gotten over the-"

"_Sherlock_." A warning tone.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes even further and crossed his arms. He did want to argue more but the car had pulled up outside an anonymous office building and Scott was already leaping out of the car.

Sherlock waited for them to assemble inside the lobby. He checked his messages again as Lestrade approached the woman on the desk. Sherlock smirked to himself as he walked right past her and through the double doors, the group following him after a brief pause.

"Sherlock! Wait up!"

He didn't adjust his pace; simply turning his back to the doors as he went through them and dancing his way through the rushing figures that filled the hallways. Eventually they made it to the top floor and to the office of Mycroft's 'local intelligence office', a large open plan room with soaring views over London and a background hum of chatter, electronic beeping and the steady thrum of hundreds of fingertips on keyboards. Sherlock made straight for the tiny room in the far corner, knocking only once before letting himself in.

"Bradley."

An average looking man in his forties spun around in his office chair, large glasses making his eyes appear three times normal size, even larger headphones dwarfing the rest of his face. He blinked at the small troupe. Sherlock slid his phone into his coat pocket.

"I need to see some footage."

Bradley lifted his chin and eyed the other men. "They don-"

"I know they don't have the security clearage. But I _do_."

"They are going to have to wait outside."

Sherlock nodded and turned around to see all three men giving him hateful glares. Sherlock shrugged allowing himself to smirk. "Well, you heard the man."

They grumbled and muttered under their collective breath but they did leave and Sherlock grinned widely as the door shut behind them. He turned back, leaning in to give Bradley the correct time code and camera location.

What he saw, or rather _who_ he saw was...unexpected.

The anonymous tipster was wearing a long black trench coat and a wide brimmed hat with a thin grey scarf and tidy, well heeled shoes. His face was not visible because the tipster kept his back to the camera, almost as though he knew Sherlock would be watching.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't think.

He just stared and stared at the blurry frame on the enormous screen in front of him. It was like he was suddenly propelled under water and everything else felt so very far away. Abruptly a still warm stack of fresh photographs were thrust into his palm and Sherlock blinked, his fingers snapping closed automatically. He barely managed to rumble out the words 'and a tape for DI Lestrade' before he was out of the door and pushing past the group and flying out into the street almost skidding on the rain soaked pavement. He kept walking and walking ignoring his phone as it trilled in his pocket. Probably Lestrade wondering what had just happened. Eventually he came to a tube station and he jogged down the stairs.

It was easier to concentrate in the hustle and bustle of the underground, the screeching as the train turned on the tracks was almost deafening and Sherlock pulled his feet up to rest on the seat beneath him. He still held some form of appreciation for the underground from the days he would spend, buying ticket after ticket, strung out and haunted by a case he couldn't solve. The combination of the warm damp air that billowed through the open window at either end of the car and the odd revered silence of the travelling crowd was oddly soothing. Of course, nowadays he would avoid travelling on public transport as much as possible.

Down here it was much too easy to get off at that one particular stop and visit his old dealer. Get lost again. Sherlock scrabbled at the photographs in his pocket. He couldn't stay here forever. This time he had somewhere to go, and the faster he got out he better. He pulled out the note given to him earlier and read the scribbled words. He then took out the photographs and stared intently at them.

So, Bossley was the one who called in the tip. He must still be watching the detective; surely he would know that Sherlock would see the CCTV footage...which was why he didn't show his face. He wanted to see Sherlock's reaction? He glanced up and eyed the car suspiciously but didn't find a single suspicious face. The detective sniffed and read the note again. It was an address and a word.

Liliputia.

Probably a password of some sort. The tube train came to a halt and Sherlock stuffed his papers back into his pocket before leaping up and escaping into the cold London air.

He didn't even have to knock. The door flew open before he could raise his hand so he simply waltzed right on in because although he had promised to try and act like a 'normal' human being and be polite and respectful around Johns family and/or friends right now he couldn't even think straight with his mind running at million miles a minute. His fiancé might have said something as Sherlock rushed past him but he didn't hear. He began pacing the small living room hand to his forehead until he felt hands on his shoulders and was being pushed into a sagging sofa that all but swallowed him.

Sherlock looked down at his feet, a finger under his chin tugged his gaze upwards and John was frowning at him. "Hey, you need to calm down."

He clenched his jaw and for a second Johns expression softened and his thumb rubbed the detectives cheekbone lightly and suddenly Harry appeared with a large navy mug filled with what appeared to be tea and so the detective took it from her and sipped at the edge and decided it would be best if he ignored everything but the heat of the mug in his hands and smell of the warm pottery and the taste of the too-strong tea coating his tongue. (Clearly it was a Watson trait to make such heavenly tea.) When he finally came back to the scene John and Harry were discussing the goings on in the TV show John would often watch with Mrs. Hudson when Sherlock was busy doing experiments. He recognised the character names.

John glanced over to him from an equally shabby armchair and stopped mid sentence. "Hey, you back now?"

Sherlock licked his lips and reached into his coat pocket pulling out the photographs. "What's that? Is that the lead you were talking about?"

"Yes and no." He thrust the short stack towards his fiancé and sat back with his fingers steeped, watching Johns face as he shuffled through the grainy images. The doctor's expression was blank but his micro expressions gave him away; at first confusion but the further he shuffled the more it dawned on him until he carefully placed the photos on the coffee table, ordering them neatly without looking at Sherlock. He then took three short breaths and sat back in his seat. He looked up and caught Sherlock's eye.

"Bossley."

"Yes."

"Okay, so that is a grand total of two master criminals who are after us. Fantastic."

Sherlock frowned. "I would hesitate to call Bossley a master criminal. He is sadistic, vengeful. He lacks the ability not to let his emotions into his craft; he is a master of nothing." Sherlock could almost hear that jingling laugh way back in his mind and he fought a shiver. Yes, Bossley may not be a master criminal but he _was_ something much much more dangerous.

John sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair, his eyes drifted to Harry's phone and he seemed to come to a decision about something. "Right, you know what, this is stupid. We can keep talking about this forever but we are going to have to face them sometime. I am done running away from them." He got up and grabbed the phone dialling speed-dial one. Sherlock looked to Harry who had gone pale and was holding a hand over her mouth.

"Mum?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose and Harry glanced desperately across to him. He sniffed and watched Johns back straighten instinctively.

"Yes, I know you weren't expecting to hear from me. I have something to ask you."

There was a pause and John kept staring ahead at the wall. "Sherlock's mother would like to meet you and dad before the wedding. She wants to invite you to dinner next Thursday." Another pause and Sherlock could hear the faint tinny voices of John's parents arguing and Johns shoulder set even straighter.

"Oh be _quiet_ for a second would you? Listen to me. I love Sherlock, he loves me, we are getting married whether you are involved or not but it _would_ mean a lot to everyone if you were there...It would mean a lot to me **and** to Harry. The work Sherlock and I are involved in is dangerous mum, we could die from this dangerous and if there is one thing I would like to do before that happens it is to walk down the aisle towards the man I love with my parents at my side."

There was a silence on the end of the phone and Harry scooted along her seat reaching for Johns sleeve. The doctor didn't look at her. More voices at the other end. "Yes I _have_ talked to her. We spent last Christmas together at Sherlock's parent's house actually." Another long pause where now it sounded like Johns mum was talking. John blinked and swallowed hard. He seemed unsure for a moment before turning and handing the phone down to Harry.

"She wants to talk to you..."

John stood with his arms crossed; chin down against his chest eyes on the floor as Harry stuttered out a few words to her mother. Sherlock leant forwards and placed his mug on the table. John glanced over to him and frowned, stamping around the coffee table to slump onto the sofa next to him. His thigh was warm. So was his palm as his strong fingers gripped Sherlock's hand tight.

Sherlock let him.

He was close enough now for Sherlock to smell him, new cotton and that aftershave John somehow knew he liked and kept buying. The doctor's body was tense, knee jiggling against the floor and Sherlock leant against him. Harry's face was pouring with tears and she kept gulping at the air as though she had forgotten how to breathe. The detective focussed on what she was saying for a moment.

"Of course I support him; Sherlock is a great guy... He may have lied to you but you have done things that are inexcusable too." There was a long long pause as Harry wiped her face on her sleeve. "I can be there."

Johns hand tightened and then the siblings shared a watery, emotional gaze. "Sherlock's brother can find you a place to stay. He will probably call you." John sat forward in his seat and Sherlock turned his eyes to his fiancés hand squeezing it a little, John squeezed back. "Okay. Goodbye mum."

Harry handed the phone back to John and the doctor took it in slightly shaking hands. "Mum?...yes he is here."

Suddenly John was pressing the phone into his hands and the detective frowned holding the earpiece up to his face. "Mrs. Watson."

"How dangerous is your job? What did John mean when he said he could die?"

"I am a consulting detective, I solve crimes, deal with criminals. Some of these criminals tend to bear grudges and John... he is my weakness. Therefore he is in great danger most of the time."

"If you loved him you wouldn't make him do this."

"Be under no illusions. I make John do nothing. He chose to be with me and there is nothing that can change that."That at least he knew for certain. He didn't force John into this. He could hear Johns steady breathing in one ear and his mothers concerned mumbling to a deeper voice Sherlock could only presume was Johns father.

"Where are we supposed to stay?"

"My brother Mycroft will contact you and will find suitable accommodation and transport. Now, if you will excuse us we are working on a very important case. Goodbye."

Sherlock hung up the phone.


	17. Chapter 15c

**A/N: Sorry this took so long. Had a bit of a hard Christmas, and then exams. Thank you all for your reviews! Only one more to go **

Three days later Sherlock curled around John in bed the doctors blearily peered out at him from between his eyelashes. (Normally John would close his eyes and be out like a light...until the nightmares came back of course.) For a moment Sherlock considered that John didn't want him to cling to him like he had every night they had slept in the same bed. Then he discarded the idea because John had never complained before so obviously this was about something else. He raised himself upwards on his elbow peering down at John. The doctor opened his eyes fully, a sad twinge to the corner of his mouth. Sherlock could feel his breath on his naked chest. He shivered.

"I don't want Harry to meet with our parents." Sherlock said nothing. "They have already hurt her enough...I know she is strong but she shouldn't have to go through that kind of rejection again."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Harry was very important to John, he knew that. If Harry being rejected made John feel sad then that made it Sherlock's job to make sure she was happy. He didn't say anything again and John sighed reaching up with his hand and pushing it through Sherlock's wild tangled hair to wrap around the back of his neck.

"But she wants this...I want them to understand... I just want things to be simple because it is really, I love you, you love me, and we are getting married. That's it. Easy. It doesn't matter what they do right? Because we have faced much much worse and Harry will always have me so even if they come here and fuck it up again its water off a ducks back right?"

Sherlock leant back into Johns hand and the doctor sighed, thumb rubbing against Sherlock's skin. After a moment the detective leant forwards and pressed a soft kiss to Johns lips because something in the back of his mind told him it would be a good idea. John kissed him back and when Sherlock slumped back onto his chest a tiny smile appeared on his face. Sherlock smiled too running his hand down John's side to rest at his waist.

"Goodnight John."

"Goodnight Sherlock."

The next morning John waited for Sherlock to shower and get dressed before he took Sherlock to his appointment with Barrows. John had sent Lestrade away when he had appeared, fuming, at the flat. He had told him to bring the two American detectives to the flat later that evening and that Sherlock would have the murderer ready for them. The detective had grabbed John and kissed him passionately after hearing what his fiancé had done.

He didn't feel like kissing him right now.

He was curled in the corner of a cab on his way to the appointment, the doctor texting Harry about their parents visit. Sherlock had fired off a text as they had left the flat but regretted it now. He still had a case to solve; he didn't have time to waste preoccupying his mind with his worry and fear. The closer the got to the office the sicker Sherlock felt. He just knew Barrows wouldn't have forgotten about Sherlock's last visit, about the question that remained unanswered.

He was proven correct; in fact it was the first thing the damn man asked. "So Sherlock, last time we were here our appointment was interrupted so I thought we could pick up where we left off. Is there something about the wedding that frightens you?"

Sherlock groaned and ran a hand over his face his long limbs spread out over the sofa so his heels crossed high above his head on the back rest and his arm lay behind supporting his neck on the cushions. He considered denying it at first but the relief on Johns face when Sherlock had asked to see Barrows again kept cluttering up his mind and he hated it but he needed to get better for John.

"John is not safe with me. I have dreams...nightmares in which he dies."

"He dies? And these dreams... what are you doing in them when John dies."

Sherlock closed his eyes the images coming at him in full force, the swelling in his chest as he walked towards John, the music filling the airy bright room and his fiancés smile, so handsome in his army best. "I'm walking up the aisle."

"Mhmm and then what happens?"

The music is stopping now, its silent except for the sound of his own breathing and Sherlock knows what's coming next, what had come next every time he closed his eyes since Moriartys visit. He doesn't so much as hear the shot as he feels it, a kick to his stomach and Johns shocked expression, the pain flickering across his face as he crumpled to the floor. Landing on one knee with one hand holding him up the other clutched to his chest, pulling away to reveal sticky vibrant red blood coating his hand. John's eyes go wide and they flicker from the image of his own palm covered in his blood to Sherlock and he feels himself shiver. All eyes are on him now, accusing stares and Sherlock runs forwards skidding on his knees so he is close to his lover but when he goes to reach out his own hands are also covered in Johns blood and the pain in his chest is all consuming and he tries to speak to apologise but it is too late and Johns eyes are unfocussed and his skin is cold and when Sherlock reaches up to touch his face it goes black.

"John is murdered."

"Murdered by whom?"

"By my enemies."

"Any enemy in particular? Moriarty? Or Bossley perhaps?"

Sherlock sucked in a breath and flung his legs over the edge to plant his feet on Barrows coffee table. He decided not to mention Bossley's reappearance."Bossley is not my concern anymore; he should be running right now. It is the logical thing to do."

"And why should he be running?"

"Because Moriarty will be after him, he is jealous of Bossley and so he would want him taken care of."

"It's what any sane person would do."

"Exactly."

"Except from what you have told me Bossley is not sane Sherlock, he is driven mad by his hatred for you and deep down you know that. You know that there is a possibility that he isn't running at all, that he is still out there hunting you."

His stomach was turning and Sherlock's eyes flickered around the room to the placement of the windows and the doorway and how he seemed to have placed himself in the furthest portion of the couch, the safest point in the room. He tasted the bitterness in his throat and retched and Barrows leant forwards placing a hand on his knee. Oddly that served to calm him slightly as Sherlock's entire brain focussed on that point in that second and he flinched away, wild eyes coming to rest on his therapists face and calm even expression.

"I see that you have been suffering from a lot of stress recently and until you learn that you cannot control what Bossley does and learn to accept that you cannot protect John then you cannot work effectively again. You do understand that don't you?"

"I am afraid."

"Yes."

"I need to dispel Bossley from my mind or I will not be able to carry on."

"Yes Sherlock. Do you believe that is all that is affecting you?"

Sherlock said nothing. His thoughts oddly went to that terrifying moment between Moran and Moriarty and Barrows frowned, waiting patiently.

"No."

The buzzer went off on Barrows phone jolting Sherlock from his thoughts and the therapist sighed leaning back in his chair. "You can stay Sherlock. I do not have another appointment until half past."

Sherlock blinked. He got to his feet and Barrows shut his notebook standing to let his patient out. "Okay then, well we can talk about it at your next appointment then. Oh and Sherlock..." He paused at the door reaching out a hand to the detective chest but not touching. "You _are_ making progress. I do think our sessions are helping you. What do you think?"

He didn't know, yes his nightmares has lessened in frequency but that may not have been affected by the sessions however he _was_ more frightened now. More frightened than ever and yet he knew this wasn't Barrows fault and to see Sherlock in therapy seemed to please John.

It was probably best he carried on.

"There is more progress to be made."

Barrows smiled under his moustache and Sherlock nodded as the hand was removed allowing him exit to the waiting room. John jumped to his feet when he heard the door open and he smiled encouragingly at his fiancé. "Hey. You good?"

He just lifted his chin and walked out leaving John to organise his next appointment and make pleasantries with the doctor. Whilst waiting outside Sherlock was offered a cigarette by a man waiting on the cement walkway. He took it, leaning into the man's lighter and taking a long drag. It had been so long since his last cigarette, he found he still relished the nicotine hit. John appeared a few minutes later and didn't even look up when he reached out, plucking the cigarette from between Sherlock's lips and crushing it under his heel without a word. He handed Sherlock his phone.

"You have a text."

"That would be our lead."

"Our lead?"

"The network gave me an address and what appeared to be a password and this is conformation that our killer has been spotted there."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Oh."

The address led them to a block of flats, and a battered wooden red door six floors up. John clung to Sherlock's arm as they peered carefully around the corner from their position on the stairs. The two flats on either side of the door were boarded up. He suspected they had been purposely bought up by the flats patron. "Follow my lead." He straightened his coat and puffed out his chest striding towards the door. Three sharp raps on the heavy wood and several clicks, knocks and bangs later a dark eyes peered out through a small crack, gaze travelling over Sherlocks face, down his length and then passing over John who stood proudly to Sherlocks side looking to all the world a professional bodyguard.

"What do you want?"

"Lilliputia."

The eye narrowed and the door slammed shut. Sherlock glanced across to John who twitched his eyebrows and he smirked. Turning back the door opened wide and they were invited into the dingy hallway, carpet almost worn bare and an ugly red pattern covered in filth. Sherlock turned up his nose and as they were led into the living room his glanced back to see John freeze in the doorway, bite his lip and then nod his head towards the walkway outside. The detective frowned but John just gestured with his eyes that he should continue before slowly inching his way backwards and out.

Sherlock was led to a grimy grey sofa on which he perched elegantly, leaning back and watching his host carefully. The man was short with a greying buzz cut and a wrinkled sagging face. He seemed confused and anxious and left Sherlock alone in the living room, skirting out to talk to someone in the hallway. When he returned he was followed by a massive man in a black hoody and another slightly shorter man in a stingy greying wife beater.

"What do you want?" The first man spoke first crossing his arms, tiny flickers of his eyes giving away Sherlock's killers position. Sadly it was back through the hallway and the detective would be unable to get past the henchmen unless...no. Judging by the larger mans shoes and the others knuckles he would be jumped on the moment they realised he was a 'civilian'. The detective lifted his chin and sniffed picking lint from his shoulders.

"I am here to do some business boys. I have a friend you see, an American friend who is very near and dear to my heart and I heard you might be the guys to help me find this _friend_." He made sure to speak mostly to the nervous ringleader, intensifying his gaze with each word noting the change in is breathing at the word 'American'. The killer was definitely here.

The man coughed and began posturing. "Oh yeah? So you think your _friend_ is here do you? How do I know you're actually his friend anyway? You could be anyone."

"You're right I could be. Why don't you ask him?"

He looked towards the door as if expecting the killer to just walk through. The ringleader scoffed and scratched the back of his head. "Nah nah nah mate. Say you ain't his friend then, what if you've got a shooter? What if I bring him in here and you kill him?"

Sherlock gave him a disappointed look. "That would be pretty stupid of me since I am here to help him." He reached into his inner pocket and suddenly a gun and a large somewhat rusty knife appeared in the henchmen's hands. Sherlock raised his right hand palms open and then pulled his other hand from his pocket, holding the crime scene photographs. "Now now boys. I only wanted to show you a little of our friends work, see he was supposed to come here and wait for me and do _nothing else_ but he couldn't help himself. He got stupid and landed us both in trouble."

The ringleader snatched the photos from Sherlocks hands and turned a rather interesting shade of green, throwing them back with as much ferocity. "He...he did **that**?"

"Yes. This is what he does." Sherlock leant forwards lowering his voice and the three men follow suit. He made sure to lower his voice holding a hand up as if hiding his mouth to convey a secret. "Now you seem pretty smart to me, do you really want somebody capable of such...dirty work here under your roof? Where you sleep at night, alone and exposed?"

The man lent back and their eyes flickered around the room all three sets coming to rest on the doorway. "No. You're right..."

Suddenly there was a loud bang and Johns voice called out in a startled yell. Sherlocks heart leap and before he could think he was up and out of the door running along the walkway to where John lay on the stairs. A cursory glance told him the man must have approached John from behind and had attempted to grab the gun. John had pulled the trigger but his aim had slipped the bullet grazing his thigh and probably lodging in the killer's foot.

There were bloody footprints leading up the stairway and it took just one second for John to give him the nod, he was alright. Sherlock flew up the stairs following the thickening trail until he was at the highest level. He arrived just in time to see the killer duck into a creaking lift. The doors closed just as he reached him and he swore loudly turning on his heel.

He froze.

For a second he thought he saw... no. He was alone up there, just him and the wind.

So he was off again soaring down the stairs, skidding past John who was being helped to his feet by the men from the flat and down, down, down to the pavement.

A car skidded away before he could catch the license plate. He cursed again.

John was laid further up the walkway tying a torquinet torn from the seam of his shirt with the three other men standing around being useless. Sherlock was furious, he had let an idiotic serial killer get away from him too easily and John had been hurt in the process.

This was unacceptable.

The thought, the sickening familiar feeling that he only associated with Bossley lingered in his mind. Was his mind so easily seduced by his own fear that now he was letting it affect him, making him see figures in the wind? His gaze slipped to the doctor's slumped form. He forced the image from his mind.

"John."

The doctor looked up at him and made a tiny groaning noise as he used the banister to pull himself to his feet. Sherlock leant forwards and wrapped a hand around his waist as support but after he had regained his balance John just waved him away.

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets. "Alright?"

"I'm fine. Or at least I will be."

"Right then." He walked past the huddled group and stormed into the flat heading for the room with the open window. The bed was not made, clearly the killer had been asleep when they had arrived, a torn backpack lay in front of the night stand and four empty cans of beer lay scattered around the bed. An ashtray lay on the carpet, clearly having been knocked off the side in the killers haste to get away. The detective grabbed the bag and pulled it open studying the contents before he swung it over his shoulder making his way back out through the flat.

He bumped into a familiar face and a familiar gun drawn in the front doorway. "Lestrade. What are you doing here?"

"I was in the area and heard a gunshot and then I saw you running hell for leather up here. I figured you might be up to something."

"Oh really? That is a shame, sorry to waste your time. If you don't mind I'll just be leaving now." He scooted around the DI but was yanked back by the force of Lestrade grabbing the bag from his shoulder. He tugged back. "Let go."

Lestrade squared his shoulders. "No."

"I said let _go_."

John limped up to them rolling his eyes."Ladies, please. I am not in the mood. Just let him have the bag would you?"

"What is in it?"

"A man."

"A..._a man_? " Lestrade recoiled from this news and Sherlock could feel the doctor's eyes boring into the back of his skull. "Oh Jesus, tell me there isn't body parts in here. "

"Who said anything about body parts? No, our killer is in this bag, this is everything he owns in the entire world and everything** I** need to find him again."

Lestrade let out a groan and wiped a hand over his face. "For god's sake Sherlock." A beep from Lestrade's phone interrupted him and the DI glanced at the screen, sniffing. "Right, I am going to take this bag to the lab and my boys are going to look at it. Then and only then will I let you have it and we are going to work together on this because I do not want those Americans hanging around my department attracting attention. Alright?"

Sherlock glared at him and tightened his grip on the bag strap. John put his hand on Sherlocks wrist and so he looked at him. His eyes were pleading, skin ashen. He was still losing blood. The detective sighed; he was so...sentimental these days. Besides he had everything he needed already. "Fine." He let the bag go and reached out to help support John, pausing as they slowly made their way to the lift. "Oh and Lestrade, do say hello to my brother."

He didn't have to look to know he was right. Keeping tabs on him as always. Bloody Mycroft.

Sherlock paced as John sat in his boxers on the leather sofa, side table pulled up to near his elbow with his emergency medical kit spread wide on top. He was wiping his wound with antiseptic pads and Sherlock couldn't think. Every time he pictured the contents of the bag his eyes would watch Johns hitching breath, the smooth sweep of the cotton swab over his skin and the fierce concentration on his face. He only realised he had been staring when John swung his leg down and tensed the muscles in his thigh, nodding with satisfaction at his handiwork.

The doctor looked up and smirked, an eyebrow rising when Sherlock simply blinked back at him. "When you're done perving on me would you mind grabbing my jeans?" He smirked too and they broke into laughter as the detective grabbed a fresh pair of pants from the bedroom. Jon was packing away his kit as he came back into the living room. "Thanks"

He reached out to take them but Sherlock pulled his hand back a little and he doctor laughed. "Sherlock, give me my jeans."

He grinned. "No."

John crossed his arms. "One final warning. Give them to me."

He took a tiny step back and in one smooth movement the doctor was up on his feet, fingers wrapped around Sherlocks wrist, other hand gripping his lapel. "Fine." His mouth was so close now he could feel Johns breath on his face, his quickened pulse throbbed in his neck, barely inches away and the doctor tone had dropped. Sherlock leant forwards and mumbled his response.

"Fine."

Johns hands came to rest as they moved together clinging to Sherlocks clothes as he cupped the shorter man, holding him close to deepen the kiss.

"Ah so the wound was not deep. I see you are in fact quite well Doctor Watson."

They broke apart but not by much and Sherlock groaned under his breath, he was still concentrating on Johns face on the curve of his lips and the light in his eyes. He didn't want Mycroft to be here, he didn't want him to ruin it. "Go away."

"I can't do that."

"Why? Did _Greg_ call you? Ooh Mycroft go and tell nasty mean Sherlock to let me play."

He let go of John and the doctor coughed clearing his throat. Sherlock twitched his eyebrows at him and the doctor grinned blushing slightly. He began to put his jeans back on and Sherlock turned away, wandering into his lab (Or as Mrs. Hudson liked to call it 'my bloody kitchen'.) without looking at his visitor knowing his brother would follow. When he did finally look at him he was surprised.

"What's going on?"

"What do you mean what's going on?"

"You got dressed up, what is going on?"

Mycroft scoffed but his gaze broke, there was definitely something he wasn't telling him. Well something more than the usual. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with."

Then it hit him, there was only one reason Mycroft would wear that _particular_ suit and...He stepped forwards a little sniffing the air and yes that _particular_ aftershave. Mycroft wanted to impress someone. Oh this was too good. "What was it then? A dinner date? A rushed soiree between meetings?"

Mycroft banged his cane on the floor and glared at his younger sibling. "Enough Sherlock. We are not here to talk about me and my relationships. We are here to talk about your dinner with Mummy. It is after all the day after tomorrow."

He glared. All thoughts of Mycroft's little indiscretions were wiped from his mind because there was no way he was going to that dinner, sitting for hours as Johns parents spouted their rubbish and Mummy looked down on him and the fuss his not eating would cause. Eugh, no he would do without.

"I am not going."

John appeared in the doorway, crossing his arms. "What's that?"

"Sherlock is refusing to go to your dinner with Mummy and your parents John."

"Right, _and_?"

"I think he really should go, as should you. After all you don't want to leave Harry alone with them."

John puffed out his chest and glared at the older Holmes brother. "Right, well just so you know I was going anyway but I don't see why we should put Sherlock through that. You know he hates dinners."

The doctor glanced to Sherlock and he smiled a little. It was always good when John stood up for him. "John, if your parents are to see that you are serious about this it would be better proven by Sherlock actually being there."

John sighed and looked guiltily at his fiancé. "He has a point."

"_John_." He didn't even attempt to keep the whine from his voice. John just shook his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"I'm sorry Sherlock but it looks like you are coming too. I don't want to give my parents any ammunition. Is that it? Is that all you wanted? Because if you don't mind I lost quite a bit of blood earlier and would like to have a lie down." John brushed angrily past Mycroft on his way to the bedroom and caught Sherlocks eye when out of sight, indicating he should follow. Mycroft waited for the bedroom door to close before he spoke again.

"Do you want me there?" His voice was low and he would not look his brother in the face. Sherlock didn't know what to do. After an awkward beat he put his hands on his hips and looked up from the floor.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Sherlocks thoughts went back to his childhood, to a time when his only protector was his prefect brother, the one with the power to sort out the bullies the one with the power to defend him from Mummy. The only one who guarded him and looked after him.

He looked at his brother and his brother looked back at him, his gaze turning from caution to understanding. A ringing noise and Mycroft swept his phone from his pocket, looking away from his younger sibling and down at the screen.

Sherlock made sure he wasn't there when he looked back.

John was sat on the edge of the bed staring out of the window. Sherlock sat next to him. "I don't like dinners."

John sighed and slumped. "I know."

"Do I have to?"

John looked at him. "No you don't have to."

"But..."

"But I really want you there. As much as I hate to admit it your brother has a point."

"And..."

John laughed and leant against his fiancés arm. "And I want you to come."

"Fine."

"That's it then? You're coming?"

Sherlock got to his feet. "Yes. Keep Mycroft busy I have work to do."

John shook his head grinning.

He was huddled in the doorway of a seedy pub, sheltering from the wind and the fierce rain as the streetlights came on. The killer was across the street. He had no idea Sherlock had been following him for two days. Two days of no sleep, barely any food and the constant pressure that he would lose his killer again.

That his demons would have beaten him.

Not that he could have slept if he wanted too. Every time he closed his eyes the feeling would return and he would be unable to keep them closed. Every other face was Bossley's and every movement in the corner of his eye was a gun or a knife in the hands of a revenge fuelled psychopath.

Sherlocks phone beeped in his pocket. Another text from John.

**You said you would come to this dinner for me Sherlock. Where are you? Are you safe? JWx**

He didn't text back because a moment later the killer hobbled from the shop doorway and clasping his plastic bag close to his chest he ran for the underground entrance. He never got that far. Sherlock was after him like a shot and when the killer sensed him behind he picked up speed. (Impressive considering the damage done to his foot.) Unfortunately Sherlocks attack was blocked by a van pulling out from an alleyway and when he got around it the killer was already at the top of the stairs.

There was nothing for it.

Sherlock leapt forwards tackling the man sending them both rolling and bumping down the stairs to the empty underground below. The detective lay winded for a second before he noticed the killer scrabbling for a knife that must have fallen from his pocket and Sherlock slipped over the damp floor, scrabbling and fighting to get there first. The killer reached out and grabbed him by the collar yanking him back and Sherlock kicked him hard in the stomach rolling over the other man and reaching for the blade. An arm appeared around his chest and flung him sideways.

A triumphant grunt sounded as Sherlock skidded to a halt and he leant up on his elbows to see the killer advancing on him with his weapon.

By the time the police had been called and Lestrade had arrived on scene Sherlock was covered in blood and dirt and was soaked to the bone. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought you had a dinner to go to!"

Sherlock sniffed and looked away from him to the American detectives who where staring at him like he was the beast from the blue lagoon, huddled under a shared umbrella.

"Your killer gentlemen."

He swept a hand out indicating the heavily breathing murderer lying wounded against the wall and elegantly tiptoed around Lestrade leaning in with a whisper. "What car did you come here in?"

"Mine! Sherlock what have you _done_ to him?"

"Nothing too bad. Just a few minor bumps and scrapes. I'll need a lift."

Lestrade put both hands to his head and groaned. "Go just...wait in the car. Jesus."

He used the wing mirror to see how he looked. He was soaked to the bone, his face streaked with grease and blood and his coat filthy. Thankfully his suit jacket was mostly undamaged as was his shirt (Well excusing a few stains here and there on the collar), he wondered vaguely for a second about the effect he was having on Lestrade upholstery. His phone beeped again.

**Bloody hell Sherlock. I am starting to worry. Text me back. JWx**

He did.

**On my way. SHx**

They parked outside the restaurant and Sherlock went for the door handle. Lestrade sighed to his right and grabbed his arm. "You can't go in there like that. Here." He popped the glove box and pulled out a comb and a pack of wet wipes. "Clean yourself up." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, who knew the DI was so image conscious. He pulled the comb through his tangled drying hair and cleaned as much if the grime from his face and hands as he could.

"_There_. Happy?"

Lestrade looked him over. He clicked his tongue behind his teeth and reached for something in the back seat. It was a large black umbrella and a thin navy overcoat. "Here, take these, leave your coat behind."

He did as he was told, stepping out of the car under the cover of the umbrella and leaning into the window. Lestrade was shaking his head smirking a little bit. "John is going to kill you." Sherlock just nodded. He hadn't been home in a few days. Lestrade was probably right. "Don't worry about the coat, I'll get it dry-cleaned and sent to the flat. Can't have you flouncing about without your fancy coat now can we."

He knew there was something he was supposed to say here. "Lestrade..."

"Don't thank me. "

"I wasn't going to."

"Of course you weren't"


	18. Chapter 15d

**A/N: I am so sorry this took so long! I've been so busy and it sort of got away from me. Hope you enjoy! Please R&R!**

The first person Sherlock saw as he entered the restaurant was Mycroft; he was nursing a whiskey on the rocks his elbow resting against the bar beside Harry who was sipping at a ridiculously large coke. It took him a few seconds to spot John who was walking towards them, his eyes flickering back and forth between the door and his mobile. When his gaze fell on Sherlock there was at first relief which quickly dissipated into confusion and anger.

"Where have you _been_!"

He tried his best unconcerned strut keeping his eyes focussed on John and his body language. "I was just finishing up the case."

John sagged a little and when he spoke next his voice was low and quiet. "You didn't come home, I thought something had happened."

He leant in slightly also lowering his voice so only John would hear what he had to say. "Nothing happens to me." The doctor looked surprised, flinching at the words. His eyes dropped down but before they hit the floor they caught on Sherlocks wrist and the cut that disappeared under his shirt sleeve.

"What are you drinking?" Mycroft finally spoke to him and Sherlock answered his brother's sneer with one of his own.

"You know I don't drink Mycroft, especially not...whatever_ that_ is."

"You disagree with my choice of whiskey?"

"Sorry to break up this fascinating conversation but I just need a word with my fiancé, only be a second." John grabbed Sherlocks wrist and tugged him over to the bathroom, pulling him inside and pushing him up against the sink. He locked the door. "Take your shirt off."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I am flattered John but I don't think this is really the time or place."

"Oh haha, very funny. No I want to see what you have done to yourself."

Oh. Well that was considerably less exciting. He unbuttoned his shirt quickly and looked down at himself. He had a few painful spots on his chest that would surely result in bruising and a few cuts at his neckline but most of the damage was to the back of his neck and his arms, long thin cuts crisscrossing his pale forearms in vibrant red. John mumbled something under his breath and pulled Sherlocks arms to him peering carefully at them and turning back and forth pushing up and down.

Sherlock watched him with interest, his focus was fascinating.

John glanced up at him and sighed. "Stay here, I'm going to see if anyone has a first aid kit." Sherlock didn't react and John sighed again brushing past him and out of the door. He was only gone a few minutes but they dragged on as the detective stared at his naked torso in the mirror his thoughts on Bossley and the fear that still wound itself around his spine late at night when he longed for sleep but couldn't for the dread of his nightmares inevitable return. He sniffed and lifted his wrists to assess the damage there and his thoughts turned to that need, that overwhelming desire that had kept him running had kept him focussed for the past three days.

He had needed to catch this killer to prove he still _could, _that the image of Bossley on the wind hadn't defeated him yet.

John bustled back in the door with a handful of white packets and a plastic cup of water, fingers curled around something in his palm. Sherlock turned to him and John handed both the water and the two pills in his hand over without a word busying himself with the packets. Sherlock swallowed the pills without questioning his fiancé and winced when he was suddenly being assaulted by the sting of the antibacterial wipes from inside the packets. John rubbed his arms, neck and torso clean and almost absentmindedly began buttoning Sherlocks shirt, his eyes unfocussed. The detective let him, fatigue spreading through him suddenly like the rush of an anaesthetic trough his veins.

There was a sharp knock at the door and then a clipped voice. "John, Sherlock? I'm coming in." Mycroft's head popped around the door his eyes taking in the half naked detective and flickering to John. "Our table is ready."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and Mycroft's gaze went to the packets in the sink and the untouched water and back to his brother. He said nothing just nodding to himself before disappearing again. John patted the taller man on the chest and sighed straightening his collar and buttoning his cuffs. The detective opened his mouth to say something because he got the sense John was waiting for him to explain. The doctor just pushed away from him and headed to the door.

"We will talk about this later. Let's just get through dinner okay?"

Mummy was sat at the head of the table with Mycroft and Sherlock at either side of her. John's parents sat to Mycroft's left and John and his sister to Sherlock's right. After the initial ordering was finished there a distinct lull in the conversation, in fact it had died completely. After quietly sipping his drink John seemed to straighten himself in his chair, the tension in the air rocketed and the doctor lifted his eyes to stare steadily at his parents who shared an almost nervous glance before mirroring their sons' stance. It had the air of an old fashioned standoff and Sherlock narrowed his eyes watching John's body language carefully.

Unfortunately when the doctor opened his mouth to speak his sister interrupted. "Are you coming to the wedding?"

John's mother stared at her daughter, there was pain behind her eyes and Sherlock watched her hands slip and slide over each other, a nervous tick. "We-"

Again Harry interrupted, this time with more force. It was almost as though the tears and shock she had experienced over the phone had solidified in person to plain distrust and anger. "I mean, why would you suddenly change your minds? You didn't come to my wedding, you didn't want to know. What, was it because you still had John? You still had one _normal_ child, is that it!"

John reached out and put his hand on top of his sisters shaking clenched fist. She relaxed a little glancing to him and then Sherlock. John's mother took a deep breath and lifted her chin her eyes flickering around the table as if looking for an ally. The Holmes' wore the same blank gaze and John and Harry just stared back waiting. "I...We realised that if we didn't try to understand your situation then we would be losing both of our children and I...I talked with the pastor and he told me that there is actually some new thinking in the church about...about homosexuality and perhaps-" "Perhaps I'm not going to go to hell after all?" Harry shook her head and John murmured something to her under his breath.

"You have to understand how hard it is for me and your mother to accept that both of our children have chosen a path that goes against god's word."

John's father finally spoke and Harry clenched her fists tightly. "I didn't choose to be this way! I just _am_! What the hell is wrong with you, how can you not see that!"

"Do you realise the scandal you caused when you ran off with that woman Harriet? The way people treated us after you left? It hurt us; it was like you had already died."

"Oh I'm sorry poor you, I feel so **bad** for you. You must have suffered so terribly with all the dirty looks you must have gotten from your friends and losing your disgusting gay daughter oh wait, you didn't lose _her_ did you. You lost the sweet innocent virginal girl that would marry some rich business man and bear you a million grandchildren."

The silence that followed was deafening and every eye turned on Harry as she panted her eyes glassy with emotion. John's mother spoke next. "It is not a crime to want grandchildren. Did you think about what we wanted when you ran off with that woman? And what about you John? Do you not want to pass on the Watson name?"

John laughed bitterly. "I'm sorry Mum but I never planned on having kids."

"I did." Harry's voice was so low it was barely audible but everyone still heard it.

"What?"

"I want kids and you know what maybe someday I _will _have them or am I no longer considered able or allowed to have kids because I happen to be in a relationship with another woman?"

"But you will obviously need a man to father them, wouldn't your lady friend object to that?"

"No actually, since she also wants children and IVF is always an option."

"But the child won't know their own father, is that really what you want?"

"Actually they would. I have a long standing agreement with a friend of mine who will act as a donor when the time comes."

"Well that is sorted then isn't it."

"I guess it is."

The argument was cut short by the waiter's arrival with their plates, he had dark tan line on his wrists and his skin looked rough as though he had been sunburnt. As he placed Johns plate in front of him Sherlock noted the waiter's woven bracelet. The man was tall and thin with wavy blonde hair cropped short on the sides and he smelt of cheap after-sun and blinked at him in confusion as Sherlock stared up at him. John tugged slightly on his sleeve and the detective broke his gaze.

Sherlock (Having not ordered anything.) sat further back from the table deftly ignoring the way most of the people at the table were blatantly staring at him. John to his credit didn't react, instead he looked over to Mycroft and instantly engaged him in a mind numbing conversation about politics or sport or something. Harry joined in the conversation as Mummy continued to watch the Watsons without a flicker in her cold mask. The Watsons ate in silence, starting down at their plates. In the interim Sherlocks mind wandered, he thought about what John had said about Harry and how concerned he felt for her and he thought about himself and Mycroft and tried to imagine feeling those same things for his own sibling. He shivered catching Mummy's eyes from the other end of the table.

She was surveying him coldly her eyebrow raising a fraction in an expression Sherlock recognised all too well. When she spoke her voice held the same cool commanding tone he hated that silenced the other dinner guests at once. "Did they forget your order Sherlock?"

He licked his lips and glanced to John who slowly turned his gaze from his fiancé to his parents and then to Mummy. He didn't look but reached a hand out and placed it on Sherlocks arm on the table, fingers clenching a little. Surprisingly he didn't speak and so the detective glared back at her letting his own cold contempt bleed into his tone.

"I am not hungry."

"But you are very thin. John, you are a doctor, don't you agree he should try and put on weight?"

To the detectives surprise it was Mycroft who responded to her, sniffing and using his own brand of polite friendly tone with an underlying threat to it. "I have already discussed this issue with John and he has assured me he is monitoring my dear brothers' diet very closely. Mummy please, let us remember that Sherlocks health issues are not the reason for this dinner. Perhaps we can discuss the wedding? I have the simple plan and some details written down should the Watsons wish to attend..."

He lifted a hand and out of nowhere a flunky appeared with a small plastic folder containing a few sheets of paper and handed it over the Mycroft. He passed it down the table and John's mother passed it to her husband without looking at it. Instead she was staring at Sherlock. "Health issues? What did he mean health issues! "

John sighed and put a hand to his face. "Mother, Sherlock is not sick. He is fine he is eating, his personal health is not any of your business okay?"

"Well I think we deserve to know if he has some some virus or something, what if he gave it to you!." Her voice wavered and Sherlock blinked in surprise.

Johns voice took on a dangerous tone. "Are you seriously suggesting that-"

"This was a mistake." Harry got up suddenly but John caught her arm before she could walk away. He stood up to join her and leant in murmuring something soothing into her ear and after a few minutes she sat down again.

John wiped his mouth on his napkin and placed both his hands on the table. "You know what. This is simple. You two either need to apologise to Harry and Sherlock for the way you have treated them and try to understand that we did not choose to be this way and that you can't change that or you can accept that you have decided to cut ties with both of your children and we will respect that _we _can't change _you._"

John's mothers face turned pink and she glanced helplessly at her husband. His expression was stern and he turned to look at his daughter. She glared back at him. Sherlock thought to remark on the startling similarities in their downturned mouths and in the tightness' around their eyes but thought better of it when he took a deep breath to speak and Johns knee bumped against his.

"This man lied to us John."

John huffed out a breath and leant back in his chair. "Yes he did. That doesn't change the stakes here. All I am asking is that you forget Sherlock and what he has done or is likely to do and all that and you just try for me...and for Harry. That's it, you just try and if you really can't get over it, if you honestly find it too much of a struggle to learn to accept your children as they are then that is fine and you can go on your way."

This time Mr. Watson looked at Sherlock, gaze boring deep into him. The detective raised an eyebrow but otherwise did nothing. John's father nodded slightly. "I have always taught you not give up... I would have taught you nothing in the end if I give up on you now." He reached out and picked up the plastic folder from where he had discarded it on the table. He looked to his wife who nodded a little too and they held hands as the table collectively turned to see Harry's reaction.

She looked shocked.

She shook her head.

Mycroft clapped his hands together loudly and smiled at the Watsons. "Lovely. Well all the details are there for you as well as a few contact numbers should you need anything. If you will excuse me..."

He got to his feet suddenly and rushed around the table heading towards the restaurant door. Harry stared after him and blinked furiously. "What was that about?"

Mummy leant in patting Harry's hand with a smile. "Don't mind him, I think my son realised there has been enough relationship talk here tonight and sought to deal with the unexpected arrival of his lover."

"Wait, what lover?" Sherlock twisted in his seat sought on finding out exactly who Mycroft had seen but John grabbed his belt and pulled him back down before he could go after Mycroft. He hadn't been able to see who had appeared at the door but he had a definitive theory he was just dying to test out.

"Leave it." John was murmuring in his ear and Sherlock attempted his best pleading look but the doctor didn't release him.

He looked tired. Sherlock stayed.

"What about the family John, your cousins, Marie? I mean they know nothing about this man and you expect them to just appear at your wedding!"

John sighed. "First off his name is Sherlock. Secondly I don't want anything big just a few friends and immediate family. Anyway Marie would only get drunk and start fighting with you. You know that."

"John! She is my sister!"

Sherlock hunted for clues outside the restaurant as John paid the bills and said goodbye to Mummy. Harry had left in a taxi after a short slightly awkward handshake with her father and a melancholy hug with John. She had made to hug Sherlock but when he tensed as she approached she stopped and waggled her fingers at him like he was a shy child. Sherlock glared at her and the corners of her mouth lifted in the closest thing to a smile she had worn all night.

The detective grinned as he swept down lifting a cigarette butt from the floor underneath the bay window of the restaurant. He spun around and asked a surprised woman in a short black dress if she had a tissue. She squeaked as she handed it over to him, most likely because Sherlock almost tore it out of her hand, spinning around to grab the cigarette butt and folding it up safely inside. He stuffed it into his pocket as John appeared in the door. Sherlock fussed with the overcoats buttons as the doctor approached him briskly.

"My parents want to see the flat... Just tell me right now do you have anything that would upset them out?"

"Upset them?"

John sighed and grabbed his arm pulling him in tighter as Mummy swept out onto the pavement helpfully distracting the Watsons. The doctor spoke low and deep into his ear and Sherlock reached out to slip a hand just inside his suit jacket. Johns worried tired eyes softened slightly and he licked his lips. "You know, experiments, evidence, crime scene photographs, toes on the draining board. That sort of thing?"

Sherlock thought about it. "As long as they don't go in my room they shouldn't come across anything too..._upsetting._"

"Good. Hail a taxi?"

He nodded and flung out an arm without leaving the almost embrace. A taxi rolled up instantly. John whistled low. "You seriously have to show me how to do that."

When they got home Sherlock let himself in and strode upstairs without bothering to look back. He had to get the cigarette butt into a clean receptacle as soon as possible. He ignored John's protests and stormed upstairs around the corner and straight to his room. Since he and John had been sleeping in the same bed and John wasn't happy about sleeping in Sherlocks room he had created a makeshift lab by pushing as many tables and bookshelves into there as possible. It had also helped in cutting down on Johns nagging since he no longer had to perform his work in the kitchen. (Although when he had bigger experiments or he hadn't bothered to clean his room and the mess was becoming unhelpful he would end up using it anyway.)

"SHERLOCK!"

John's voice was extremely loud and slightly panicked and the detective spun around knocking a few glass jars from one of his desks. They shattered on the floor and the detective jumped away from them to avoid being spilt on. He hesitated but John called again and he simply placed a wooden storage box over the spill and resolved to deal with it later. When he came back into the living room he found John with his arm around his mother patiently trying to explain that it was the work they do and nothing to worry about; he honestly didn't know they would be out.

Sherlock was confused and titled his head at John who glared up at him and then pointedly at the mantelpiece. Propped up behind the various items were three black and white crime scene photographs each with a date written on the white border underneath. His heart pounded and he blinked in surprise for a few seconds before rushing back to his room.

John left his mother on the sofa as his father took over comforting her and followed Sherlock with his fists clenched. "Don't think you can hide from me Sherlock."

"I'm not hiding John. I'm finding!"

"Finding! You will be trying to find out what happened to your legs if you don't get the hell out here!"

"Nonsense they aren't likely to be going anywhere." He brushed past his still fuming partner and snapped on his black rubber gloves (a gift from Molly.) fingerprint kit clenched under his arm. He approached the photographs and paused with his hands on his hips, his mind was racing a mile a minute and he grinned at the rush as he attempted to figure out why this scene felt so familiar.

He vaguely heard John say something to him in the background but ignored him in favour of carefully lifting each picture from the mantelpiece and checking them for fingerprints. Becker appeared in the doorway and Sherlock glanced at him over his shoulder. "Someone broke in. I believe through the kitchen window, check if Mrs. Hudson heard anything." Becker blanched a little but nodded and walked through to the kitchen raising what was probably Mycroft on his walkie-talkie.


End file.
